


Your Eyes Are Open Wide

by roggietaylor



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Early Queen (Band), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Roommates, Smile (Band) Era, omg and they were roommates....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roggietaylor/pseuds/roggietaylor
Summary: The idea Freddie and Roger had to move in together seemed fun in theory but in practice it's driving Freddie up the wall and forcing him to confront feelings he's been avoiding for years.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 49
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I'm sure many of you are also quarantined so I hope to be updating this one pretty quick, I've got nothing but time on my hands right now haha! As requested quite a bit this is a froger fic! The last froger fic I wrote had a lot of angst, this one is still angsty BUT I think it's more fluffy in many places so I hope you all enjoy it! Please comment and let me know if you did! <3

“You’ve got to push,” said Roger.

“I _am_ pushing,” replied Freddie with a shove at the arm of their couch. Roger groaned and dropped his end in the doorway. It was half in, half out. “Don’t give up—”

“I’m not giving up, I’m thinking,” said Roger.

They’d locked down this flat a week ago, it was small and uncooperative, but they could afford it on their budgets. Brian had come by to help them out with the mattresses earlier in the day but had classes to get to. They were far from affording actual movers so the rest was up to them.

“How about I bring up the dining chairs while you think?” Freddie was already headed down the stairs, not waiting to hear an answer from Roger. When he came back up, a chair under each arm, Roger seemed to have an idea that wasn’t just brute force.

After a lot of twisting and cursing and promising their neighbours they weren’t usually this loud, the couch flew inside. Roger and Freddie celebrated that small victory and picked it back up to arrange it. Only when they picked it up did they realise how badly they’d scratched the wood floors.

“We’ll get a rug,” said Roger. “You’re an art student, can’t you paint it over?”

“Sure I can,” said Freddie with a laugh.

The couch was their last big item. They had the dining table to bring up but it was small and if either of them cared to, it could be carried by one person. Their boxes of clothes and belongings came up last. Roger insisted they put the whole place together right then and there and Freddie agreed.

Freddie had a few plants that needed the sunlight of their living room as neither of their bedrooms got enough. Roger said it really spruced the place up. He put together their sound systems. Roger invested most of his money in his speakers, his records, his turntables, and had his old system brought over from Truro to put in their living room. They were short on room in there after they’d set up the couch, the little coffee table, and Freddie’s old television set, but Roger made it work.

The plants framed the bay window, Freddie tended to them while Roger did the maths on the optimal alignment of their speakers.

“Can you do that for my room?” Freddie sidled up to Roger to watch him scribble things down as he worked out the placements.

“Do what?” said Roger. He looked at Freddie, eyes bright but soft.

“Uh the—the speaker thing,” said Freddie.

“Oh,” Roger lit up, “sure! I thought you’d never ask,” he added with a smirk and returned to his scribbling from before.

Freddie stared at him, watched the way his hand moved over the paper as he wrote. He had such nice hands, Freddie always thought. Strong but soft. Masculine in build, feminine in nature. He wanted to reach out, right then, hold one, feel each pad of each finger, each knuckle, each muscle.

“Knock knock!” called Brian at their door.

“Can you get it?” mumbled Roger, not looking up from his work.

“Uh-huh,” said Freddie, his throat a little dry.

Brian, back from class, helped Roger decide on the optimal listening arrangement. For their living room, for Freddie’s room, and for Roger’s room. The living room’s sound system was bits and pieces Roger had been gifted, things he inherited over the years and saved when most would’ve thrown them away. Roger’s bedroom had everything top of the line, speakers he’d saved up for for years in his childhood and adolescence. Freddie’s room was his turn table, set up on his dresser, and his speakers set up where Freddie felt they looked the best.

“If you switch it though, Fred, you can have the sound converge right at your desk so while you work,” began Roger, taking the liberty of rearranging his speakers, Freddie didn’t mind. “See if you do it like this—now the sounds _right_ there, perfect!”

“It just looks so horrible,” groaned Freddie.

“What if we made it converge towards the bed?” said Roger.

“I mean,” began Brian as they both watched Roger do off hand maths to figure out how to best align Freddie’s speakers, “reality is, it will sound good no matter how they’re set up, so long as nothings blocking them so you might as well set them up nicely.”

“He _asked_ me to,” said Roger, though Freddie noticed he began to take more note of how the speakers looked in the room and in the end they were symmetrical, just how Freddie liked them and converging to the left of Freddie’s desk, between the desk and his side table. Roger offered to shove his desk into the corner for him but Freddie and Brian thought the experiment better end there.

“On to the next,” said Roger as he tore open one of Freddie’s boxes.

“I can do my own clothes thanks,” said Freddie with a grin.

“Yes, but I’d like to know what I’m planning to steal,” said Roger as he rooted through the box. “Oh!” his hands resurfaced around a polaroid camera. “Brian, come get our picture!”

“Does it have film?” Brian took the camera from Roger’s hands.

“It should,” said Freddie. Roger hurried around the bed to get to Freddie’s side. He wasn’t shy, he put his arm tight around Freddie’s waist and held him there while Brian fiddled with the camera. Freddie held his breath, focusing on the way Roger’s fingertips curled around him so easily. His grip loosening and tightening as he tried to instruct Brian on what he was doing wrong. Freddie tried to reciprocate, his arm behind Roger’s back recoiling every time he tried to lay a hand on him.

“C’mon Fred, get in like you know me,” teased Roger. Freddie laughed, a tight, strained laugh and draped his arm across Roger’s shoulders.

“Smile!”

“Shameless advertising,” said Roger through a grin. A second later the flash blinded them both. “Two! One for us each!”

The flash went off again and two polaroid printed one after the other. Roger took one and handed the other to Freddie. “I hope I didn’t blink—Oh hold on—we’ve got to write—” Roger hurried to Freddie’s desk and rummaged around until he found a pen. He leant over and scribbled ‘move in day’ on the strip of white below the photo.

“Mine too,” said Freddie as he hurried to hand Roger his photo. Roger wrote the same words but added a smiley face on Freddie’s.

“Oh—they’re starting to develop.” Roger held the photos about an inch from his face. His bad eyesight being half the reason, the underdeveloped film the other.

“I’ve got to get back soon, do you two still want help with the kitchen and all that?” said Brian.

“Yes,” said Roger eagerly. “Let me put this away and we can do the dishes.”

Roger hurried out with his photo in hand and Freddie admired the slowly developing faces on his own.

“He’s fully of energy today,” said Brian, rubbing his eyes.

“He always is.”

“Last night, down the pub, he wouldn’t shut up about how great this place would be,” said Brian with a laugh.

“Well that old roommate of his got under his skin so much,” said Freddie. “Think it’s better those two live apart and see each other on weekends.”

“I suppose that’s part of it, he’s been so giddy thinking of living _with you_ ,” said Brian.

“Has he?” said Freddie. His cheeks heated up, but he was glad his skin tone didn’t allow for Brian to really see that.

“Has who what?” said Roger, appearing in the doorway.

“Has you,” said Brian as he turned to him. “Talking about how you wouldn’t shut up about finally moving in here with Fred.”

Roger grinned, wide and unashamed. “Jealous are you?”

Brian laughed and shook his head. “No offence but my flat’s a bit more spacious.”

“Why’d you need all that space if you never bring anyone home,” teased Roger. Before Brian could try to squeeze in a snide comment of his own Roger said, “those dishes won’t unload themselves,” and turned heel towards the kitchen.

Brian sighed and followed him, Freddie did the same. They unpacked the whole kitchen before Brian had to be off. They thanked him and promise to cook him dinner should they ever learn to cook. After that they tore into their own boxes, setting up their rooms exactly how they liked them. Neither of them had much to set up but they had plenty of clothes to put away. When Freddie peeked his head in to give Roger a goodnight, he’d already curled up on his bed and fallen asleep.

~~~

“This would look perfect on you,” said Roger, talking far to close with a potential customer. The girl, all giggles and blushes, took whatever it was Roger held up for her and let him lead her to their fitting room.

He hurried back to their seat up front where Freddie was to stare at the mirror contraption he’d set up. Something he’d slaved away over, two mirrors set up to give Roger, and Freddie technically, a view into the fitting room. He could never see much, just slivers of bare skin as the curtain blew around, but it was enough to get Roger through a work day.

“Sorry am I hogging it?” said Roger, eyes not looking up from the mirror. Freddie caught a glimpse of the girl through the reflection, the most he could see was her bare thigh, which had been mostly bare when she walked in. Freddie had a feeling with Roger’s poor eyesight, he was seeing mostly blurry splotches of skin tone mixed in with the colour of their fitting room curtain.

“It’s all yours,” said Freddie tiredly. Roger looked to him, eyes full of sympathy.

“What’s wrong?” said Roger.

Freddie stifled a laugh. “Does something have to be wrong for me not to want to ogle some woman while she changes?”

“You make me sound like a pervert,” said Roger, pointedly turning away from his mirror set-up. “The curtain blows wide open—it’s not as if I’ve got a peephole drilled in a wall.”

“I wasn’t calling you a pervert,” said Freddie.

“You’ve taken the fun out of it,” said Roger, crossing a leg over the other and his arms over his chest.

“Didn’t mean to,” said Freddie halfheartedly. Maybe he did mean to. Freddie liked chasing girls with Roger, Roger could make anything fun. But the sinking feeling of Roger going home with someone, of watching Roger’s face get struck with love every single night when someone pretty came into his field of view could get old. But it was pointless to think about why that was, pointless to wonder about keeping Roger all to himself. He knew what he was in Roger’s eyes.

“So—” Roger jumped out of his seat to meet the girl by the changing stall, “what did we think?”

“I think I’ll take it,” the girl pressed a hand to Roger’s chest, garment hanging off her thumb. Roger wasn’t shy about taking her money, and he wasn’t shy about offering up his and Freddie’s phone number. Freddie wasn’t shy about slamming the money box closed and locking it as loudly as he could. Not sure if he wanted to drown out Roger’s flirtations or his own misplaced jealousy more.

~~~

Freddie simultaneously wanted to fall asleep and burst out of their flat in a full sprint waiting for Roger to get home from his date. He wanted to know what they were doing, every last detail, but he also wanted Roger to never speak of it. Mostly, he wished he didn’t care, wished he was neutral and normal like every other roommate waiting up for someone. He wished he could focus on the program blaring on the telly, wished he could eat his fucking dinner, but he couldn’t. He was focused, with white hot intensity on wondering what Roger was doing in that exact moment and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew, and he’d hate himself if he every found out.

“Oh!” said Roger behind him as he opened their front door. “You’re awake.”

Freddie turned around over the back of the couch, “How was your date?”

“Fantastic,” said Roger, reaching forward to shake Freddie’s shoulder before going through to the kitchen.

“That good huh?” said Freddie, sinking in his seat knowing damn well what ‘fantastic’ meant. Fantastic meant she’d sucked him off, maybe even fucked him, shown him the time of his life and for now at least he was starry eyed and desperate for her. He’d be talking about her for weeks if it lasted that long, or god forbid months if it turned into something real. But he didn’t care, he couldn’t care, he wasn’t supposed to fucking care.

“She’s got a friend for you,” said Roger.

“Oh,” said Fred not really listening. “Oh,” he repeated once he really heard his words. “I don’t know—”

“I met her tonight,” said Roger, his mouth was full. He was eating. Which meant he hadn’t eaten with his date. They’d been gone so long and hadn’t eaten? “She’s very sweet, you’ll really love her.”

“You’re talking as if you said yes for me,” said Freddie, nerves and irritation clear in his voice.

“I did,” said Roger, reappearing from the kitchen with a sandwich in hand. “Next time we go, you’ll come, with, all four of us.” Roger squeezed Freddie’s knee as he flopped down next to him on their tiny couch.

“I don’t need you making dates for me,” snapped Freddie. “I do just fine on my own.”

“Oh,” said Roger, eyes wide and guilt, cheeks full of bread and ham, “okay, I’m sorry.”

“No—it’s fine,” said Freddie. It was too much to think about. Going out with a woman, the focus that took, all while Roger was next to him flirting with some girl he’d met days before and was now head over heels for. “I’ll go, it’s fine.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Roger, eyes still wide with apology.

“I know you didn’t,” said Freddie. He clenched his jaw and tried to focus on the figures moving across the screen. He’d long since stopped being able to focus on the plot of whatever soap was on. But his mind still churned. Any sound from the telly was drowned out by Roger wolfing down his sandwich. Why was he so hungry, why hadn’t he and his date eaten, how had he worked up such an appetite, why had he been so late. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about it. Why couldn’t he stop feeling so jealous of something he couldn’t have, couldn’t want.

“I like this show—” said Roger trying to break the silence.

“I’m going to bed,” said Freddie at the same time.

“Because of me?” said Roger.

“No, no, headache,” lied Freddie as he stumbled to his feet and down their little hall to his room.

“G’night, Fred!” called Roger just before Freddie slammed his door, pressed his back firmly against it, and sank to the floor.

Roger was pretty, everyone knew that, and he was kind hearted and fun, and he was the closest friend Freddie’d ever had. And it was so easy, so so easy to pretend that was _all_ he was when they were living apart. So easy to go home without him and forget how much lingering touches and looks had meant during the day. But as Freddie sat on his bedroom floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, he wondered if maybe, it would be impossible to keep it up with Roger’s room a few feet from his own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Kind of a fast update for me, three days! I don't know if I can keep that pace up haha but I've got more time on my hands now, if you like this chapter please comment and let me know! <3333

Freddie liked to sit in on Smile’s practicing. He liked their music, their practice hall was right by his art building, and most importantly he got to see Roger drum. The hall they practiced in was half assembly half theater and mostly unattended. Which was good for them, they could practice to their hearts content. But it also meant the circulation wasn’t great and it got muggy fairly easily.

When Tim asked, Freddie propped a few of the windows open and continued his sketching. He had assignments due that he could’ve been working on but instead he was sketching his flatmate’s band. He had work he had to do, friends he’d been neglecting, and yet he still left his studio, left his half-completed project and pathetically wandered down into the hall where the flatmate, who had a beautiful girlfriend, was drumming. It was so desperate, so cloying, so hopeless but he couldn’t help himself.

He hated that he wanted so desperately to see Roger during the day, to see him drumming, that he’d disregard his dignity and work to sit against the wall and sketch. But he was a long way away from ever missing a chance to do so, to watch the three of them play together. So he just kept sketching. He threw in a few gesture drawings of Brian, a few of Tim, anything to make sure he captured them all equally and it didn’t show how much more he was focusing on Roger.

Freddie’s eyes traced every inch of him, growing more and more flustered the sweatier, the more intense, Roger got. When Brian and Tim gave each other notes, Roger would wave at him with a goofy face and Freddie would do the same. He’d never felt so embarrassed to be so happy.

“How do we sound, Freddie?” said Tim.

“Tops!” replied Freddie lazily.

“And you’re coming to the gig tonight?” said Tim.

“Yes,” answered Roger on his behalf. Roger had been barking at him all week to clear out his schedule for their gig that weekend. Freddie had promised to go the first time he asked, but he didn’t mind Roger being so keen on him coming.

“Yes,” said Freddie.

“Well now we’ve got _at least_ one person excited to see us,” said Tim with a grin. “Alright, we can pack up.” Tim looked to Brian for approval. He nodded in agreement and pulled his guitar strap over his head.

“Try not to speed up,” said Brian in Roger’s general direction. “You get so caught up you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” groaned Roger as he stood from his stool and stretched his back out. “I won’t speed up if you don’t slow down.”

“Please save the bickering for after I’ve gone,” said Tim.

“He started it,” said Roger. He made no effort to look like he was transferring the school’s kit to the backroom and instead hurried to sit by Freddie on the far wall. “Can I see your sketches?”

“Always,” said Freddie. He wondered why Roger still asked. No matter what he was doing, Roger always wanted to peek through his sketchbook and Freddie always said yes, he didn’t need permission anymore but he still asked.

His fingers hovered over the marks Freddie’s made, careful not to touch them ever since he’d accidentally smeared charcoal across one of Freddie’s final pieces. “Wow, this looks just like Brian.”

“I should hope so,” laughed Freddie.

Roger flipped the page to a far more detailed drawing of himself. “Do I really look like this?” said Roger. Something he asked every time he saw Freddie’s sketches of him.

“To me,” said Freddie.

“If I look like _this_ to you it’s a miracle you haven’t fallen in love,” said Roger with a laugh that Freddie couldn’t find it himself to return. “You ought to draw women more. You draw me in such a flattering light, I bet women would go crazy to see your interpretation of them. Very bohemian, ya know? Ask some girl to pose for you and draw her much thinner and have her swoon. That’s what I would do anyway.”

“I could try that,” said Freddie, trying not to sound as uninterested as he was.

“Can I see?” said Brian, wandering over and standing above them like the giant he was. Roger handed Freddie’s sketchbook up and guided him to the sketch of himself. He lit up, all smiles. “You’ve got real skill, Fred—more skill than the rest of that art department combined.”

“Look at the one of me on the next page,” said Roger, sitting up a bit to help direct Brian.

“Oh,” said Brian. “Wow, this is…very well done.”

“It—It’s more detailed than you and Tim since he’s sitting relatively still the whole time,” said Freddie, hoping that would excuse why Roger’s sketch was nearly a finished piece while Brian’s was more of a concept.

“It’s…” Brian stared at it a bit longer, “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” said Freddie. He stood up and self consciously took his sketchbook back from Brian’s grip. Freddie said a few quick goodbyes and promised Roger once again that he would be there for the gig. He’d never missed a show of his before and didn’t plan on starting.

“Hey Jo’s coming down so you might want to invite Victoria,” said Roger as Freddie swung the door open and hurried back to his studio.

Freddie wasn’t sure how but in the month since Roger set him up with Jo’s friend, Victoria, she’d become his de facto girlfriend. Victoria was a nice girl. Sweet and fun and a good person to spend the night out with. Jo was just as kind, just as fun. And maybe Freddie could’ve relaxed into it, had a little more fun when the four of them went out if he weren’t so focused on the way Roger’s hand held Jo’s knee, the way he kissed her jaw for no reason other than to make her smile, the way he did he best to make her laugh, the way he almost forgot Freddie was even there.

~~~

Every performance Roger ever gave was an hour long, guilt ridden daze for Freddie. He loved every second of it. His whole body fully of electricity as he worked the drum kit, his eyes full of life, his movements full of power. He couldn’t help wondering how Roger might feel after a show like that. How he might touch him, might kiss him, might rock into him with the residual adrenaline of the gig. But those weren’t thoughts he liked to pay much mind to, give much credence to, not while he was sober anyway.

He descended the pub’s stairs a few minutes before Smile was set to perform. He wanted to avoid the small talk with Jo and Victoria for as long as he could and ate up some of that time by ordering a pint of lager before he even bothered to look for them in the crowd.

“There you are,” said Victoria’s lilting voice somewhere behind him. Freddie sighed into his pint and swallowed the sip he’d taken before he dared turned around to greet her. She kissed him hello with a bright white smile and pulled him along behind her to the spot she and Jo had reserved in the audience.

No matter how many times he saw it, watching Roger wave to the audience as he took his seat always made Freddie’s heart jump. There was a safety in the distance of it. Roger was on stage, he was performing to an audience, he wanted the audience to react how Freddie was…reacting. It was normal, in a way. The abnormality came after, came if Freddie thought about him long after his drums had left the stage. If he only thought those thoughts, felt those aching, tugging needs to get to Roger while he was performing it didn’t count, not in his mind.

Although it was harder to justify it to himself with Victoria there, hanging off his arm, pressing kisses to his face that he couldn’t dodge and pulling him out of the moment, dragging him back to reality where he was with her and Jo was with Roger. He could hardly enjoy the show with his attention being torn in two drastically different directions. He felt almost relieved when the last song played and he knew he didn’t have to see Roger play anymore, didn’t have to pretend to Victoria that he was just enjoying the music.

“You were amazing,” said Jo when the three of them found Roger packing his drums away in his van. She pulled him in to a deep kiss and Freddie looked away as Roger’s hands meandered around her hips.

“Does that mean none of you noticed when I fell off beat that one time on the fourth song?” said Roger, pulling away looking from Jo to Freddie and Victoria.

“Didn’t hear a thing,” said Victoria, squeezing the hand that was holding Freddie’s.

“All perfect to me,” added Freddie. Roger just smiled as a thanks and turned his attention back to Jo. Muttering something, whispering here and there, private things that had them both grinning.

Freddie wondered why he couldn’t do that with Victoria. Why he was having trouble just holding her hand, why he couldn’t look at her the way Roger looked at Jo. Talk to her, kiss her, touch her the way Roger could with Jo. Roger joked often that Freddie could have a conversation with a wall, and normally he was right. Freddie never had a problem talking to people. But in moments like these with Victoria he was at a loss. In moments like these where it was clear that something was wrong between them, Freddie didn’t want to speak and risk that disconnection being brought to light.

“We’ve got work early,” said Jo, to Roger but loud enough for Victoria.

“I could drive you,” said Roger into her neck.

“No, no,” chided Victoria, letting go of Freddie’s hand to pull Jo off of Roger. “There’s plenty of time _after_ work.”

Roger whined and pressed one last kiss to Jo’s eager lips before Victoria got the better of her.

“Goodnight Fred,” said Victoria as she passed, kissing him carelessly on the cheek and continuing on to her car. There was no fight with them over who stayed over where, there was no longing, lingering touches or kisses. There was a stunted friendship, a few inside jokes, and an unspoken confusion that left them both empty.

“Well,” sighed Roger as he watched Jo get in Victoria’s car, “time to go home I guess.”

“I guess,” said Freddie, trying to sound as disappointed as Roger was.

~~~

Roger said something about being hungry and rifled through their cabinets for a snack or some leftovers he could reheat. He found a box of biscuits that became his dinner for the night which meant he had to put a record on. Roger insisted on music during dinner, he said he’d done so since he was about eight or nine, but his mum only let him start turning their wireless on when he was twelve. It wasn’t long before Freddie realised this rule applied to motley dinners of bread sauce or a few beers.

Freddie wondered if Roger remembered little details about him like that. If he hung on his every word the way Freddie did with him. If every morsel of childhood memory, interests, likes and dislikes was filed away forever in Roger’s mind the way it was in Freddie’s. But probably not. Definitely not.

“You sure you don’t want any?” Roger offered the box to Freddie who pushed it away. He had sunk so far into the couch he wasn’t sure he’d ever get out. Roger, on the other end, was stretched out and humming along with the music, not a care in the world.

Freddie wished he could be that way. Wished he could like his girlfriend and have a fun night out at a concert without it embarrassing him in a way he couldn’t begin to describe. Without it shaking out the last few threads of his self esteem. He wanted to feel as light as Roger. Eating fistfuls of biscuits without a care in the world.

“God you look depressed,” said Roger with a laugh.

“Do I?” said Freddie with a laugh he just barely faked.

“Here, I’ve got just the thing.” He jumped up from their sunken couch and hurried to the kitchen to rifle around like a maniac the way he always did until he pulled out a bottle from the cabinet triumphantly. “Wine!”

“How’d you get wine?” laughed Freddie. “Never saw you put that in the trolley.”

“Jo gave it to me, her older brother collects it or something, she’s got heaps,” said Roger as he searched around for their corkscrew. Freddie always deflated a bit when he mentioned her.

“How nice of her,” said Freddie as diplomatically as he could.

“Here we are,” said Roger handing Freddie a glass of wine. They didn’t have wine glasses so Freddie wasn’t sure if he’d poured too much or too little but he didn’t care to find out. Roger took a gulp from his own glass as he sat down and set the bottle on their coffee table. “Why do you look so out of it?”

Freddie shrugged. “I think I just need a tan. Ever since I came here, I always look so ghostly. Everyone thinks I’m sick or depressed.” It was a lie but it was convincing enough.

“When you moved here did you miss the sun?” said Roger. Freddie perked up mostly out of curiosity. Freddie, long ago, told him about how he’d moved from Zanzibar, but no one cared much to ask him anything about it past that conversation. Freddie didn’t mind it, didn’t like talking about a childhood that just alienated him more, but there was something comforting in the way Roger asked it. “Sorry, do you not want to talk—”

“No, no—just caught me off guard,” laughed Freddie. “Er—yeah, I did miss it. I thought the cold would be the worst part but England’s so perpetually overcast. My mum really got down and out about it.”

“What about Kash?” said Roger.

“Oh is that what it is?” teased Freddie. “Asking me about home to get me to put a good word in for you with Kash?” Freddie laughed but there was no humour behind it. The day he had Roger meet his family, only to have him try to chat up his sister was one of his lowest.

“Of course not,” said Roger, a bit too serious. “And I apologised like mad after that happened. I was just curious about you, about Zanzibar, you don’t bring it up much.”

“I was only teasing,” said Freddie, he knocked his knee against Roger’s to prove it. “Most people prefer my sister to me, it was a joke, don’t blame you for it.”

“I prefer you,” said Roger. Freddie turned to look at him, to see if he was joking. Roger’s eyes locked on Freddie’s, a smile never broke across his face, a laugh never broke the silence. Freddie smiled an awkward shaking smile and took a huge swig of his wine. “You know you should take me.”

“Huh?” said Freddie, choking on his wine.

“To Zanzibar. I’ve never really left the UK, I’d like to go somewhere totally new,” said Roger with a grin.

Freddie, still sputtering a bit, saw a sincerity in Roger’s eyes that he hadn’t expected to be there. “Sure…If we get money together an all that, one day we can go. I can show you around. Much easier to go ‘round unbothered with someone as white as you with me.”

Roger laughed and downed the last of his wine. “Alright, what record?”

Freddie listened and heard the deadwax playing. “Uh…anything but your Bowie shit, I can’t stand that.”

“ _Fine_ ,” groaned Roger as he sank to his knees in their cramped little living room. He was sat in front of the milk care that held their vinyls, combing through their living room record collection. Old stuff, classics that they had two copies of or music that worked best in a crowd. Freddie kept his operas in his own room, Roger kept his screaming punk in his. But everything else got mixed in the living room.

“Oh,” said Roger, dusting off a medley jazz album. “My mum likes this one, really good for dancing she always said.” Roger heaved himself up and repositioned on the couch, pressing his leg flush against Freddie’s when he did. The record played for a bit. Old jazz, the stuff Freddie tended to stay away from, the stuff he got bored of quickly. It didn’t have the theatrics of opera, it didn’t have the pace of rock, it didn’t have the wavering sound of alternative, it was just brassy. But he leaned into it, listened careful to every note as it played, as Roger hummed along.

He finished his wine off and set his glass on the table before leaning back against Freddie. “Do you like Victoria?” said Roger, his voice laced with drowsiness.

“Of course,” said Freddie automatically. A rehearsed answer.

“You just,” Roger sighed, deep and tired, “I don’t know.”

“I like her,” said Freddie, convincing himself as much as Roger. A beat of silence passed, Freddie expected more grilling, more interrogation about it but got none. Instead he felt Roger’s head on his shoulder, felt him nestle in as he dozed off. His face was so soft, his breath so warm against his shoulder. Freddie could’ve listened to him take deep, sleepy breaths all night. He didn’t care that the lights were on, that the record player was on, that their door wasn’t locked, that he was uncomfortably settled into the couch. He didn’t mind it if Roger was comfortable.

Roger sighed deep in his sleep and moved to nestle closer, to settle in. In those movements he woke enough to realise where he was. To laugh and apologise to Freddie for falling asleep, to stand up and stretch, to flick the record player off and ask Freddie to switch the lights off, to mutter a quick goodnight before he disappeared into this bedroom and left Freddie in the dark hall of their flat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! Thank you for the comments you've all left me, I really do love them!! I think this is a day four update which is slower than the last but faster than usual haha ! I hope you enjoy this one as well <3 please comment if you do <3

Freddie spun the cue in his hand, a tight wringing grip as he did. He’d never been as good at pool as Roger and that became very apparent on their third game. Jo and Roger were more… _more_ every time Freddie looked over to them. Hanging off each other, sharing kisses that made him wince, promising each other things said in hushed voices for every ball Roger sank.

Freddie couldn’t bear to look, and he couldn’t really bear to distract himself with Victoria. She stood quietly by the wall, muttering a few jokes to make Freddie laugh every so often but kept her distance in a way that they both knew was abnormal for a couple that was supposed to be happy.

Roger sank the eight ball and let his cue fall on the felt of the table, freeing his hands up to wrap around Jo and kiss her too deeply for somewhere so public.

“Alright,” said Roger, with Jo’s lips against his neck, “we’re going, see you lot tomorrow or something.” He waved as a meager goodbye and hurried out of the pool hall with Jo’s hand in his own. Freddie watched them go, each step they took towards the door another shock to his system.

He did his best not to imagine them together, but there were times, like these, like the nights Freddie laid away hearing them through their paper thin walls, that he was forced to remember, to picture them. To imagine the way Roger would grab her hips, would kiss her neck, bite her shoulders, the way he’d sound, the sweat on his back, his breath growing laboured. A performance that he knew he’d never get to be on the receiving end of, a show he was constantly reminded he was missing.

“You can come to mine,” said Victoria as Freddie hung up his cue on the wall.

“Oh…sure,” said Freddie. Roger had taken the van and he knew he wouldn’t like being home for a little while anyway. So he didn’t shake her off when she took his hand and led him out to the car park, out to her car, and he ducked his head getting in the passenger’s seat.

“Can you sing this one?” said Victoria, turning her radio up on some old jazz singer Freddie couldn’t identify. On their second or third date, Freddie told her he was a singer. She whined that singing wasn’t so cut and dry like guitar, that she’d never be able to tell if he was talented or if he could just hold a tune. Ever since she asked over and over if he could sing any old song she heard on the radio, over the speakers at a pub, off the jukebox in a restaurant.

“Oh yes, in my sleep,” said Freddie with a grin. She smirked back and told him to prove it. Freddie tried to follow the tune he didn’t know, the words he didn’t know, and had Victoria in stitches by the next red light. She had a beauty about her when she laughed hard like that.

A beauty Freddie wished he could appreciate how she deserved.

She parked in her usual spot and walked the two of them up to her flat. Her roommate was home so she led him to her bedroom. She apologised for the mess, though Freddie thought the place was spotless and offered his choice of whiskey, vodka, or tea from the kitchen. Freddie sat awkwardly on her bed and opted for the vodka and she returned with a bottle and two shot glasses. She sat by him, closer than they normally sat, further than some couples, and poured them each a shot. They each took it quick. Numbing the discomfort that was always between them, trying to amplify the humour they shared, the friendship they shared, trying to distract from the obvious.

“Why don’t we make a game of this?” said Victoria.

“What sort of game?” said Freddie.

“Truth or dare?” offered Victoria. “But each dare is another shot.”

Freddie eyed her a bit, suspicious of her motives, but her eyes were innocent, a bit playful. “Alright, who’s first?”

“I’ll go.” She filled the shot glasses once more. “What’s the longest relationship you’ve ever had?”

Freddie laughed, hoping to get her to drop the question. He knew the answer immediately. It was her. He’d never gone past a month or so with anyone else, never had the stomach too and the older he got the more clearly he could see why that was. “Why’d’you wanna know that?”

“Answer it,” said Victoria, her voice still playful. “If you answer I drink, if you don’t you drink—Oh and no lying!”

“Of course not,” said Freddie. “Well, my longest relationship, I guess was about nine or ten months. Back when I was twenty one.”

She looked at him, Freddie felt totally exposed when she did, wondering if his lie was believable in any way. But she drank her shot and insisted it was Freddie’s turn.

“Let me think of something,” said Freddie, Victoria looked up at him expectantly. “Er—how old were you when you first kissed someone?”

“First peck was ten or eleven, first proper kiss was about fourteen,” said Victoria. Freddie didn’t know what to do with that information. He didn’t really care about it, not in the way she wanted him to. So he drank his shot. “Alright, my turn.” She looked at him, her eyes dark and probing as she did. “Do you prefer Jo to me?”

“What?” laughed Freddie, vodka sloshing in his shot glass as his hand shook. “No, of course not.”

“She’s taller than me, thinner than me, bigger tits than me,” said Victoria, her face losing all of the humour it had a moment before. She drank the shot she’d poured herself preemptively and waited on Freddie’s answer.

“I met Jo before I met you, never took a liking to her,” said Freddie. Technically not lying.

“Really?” said Victoria. “You mean that genuinely?”

“Yes,” said Freddie. He put a reassuring hand on her knee.

She looked down where his hand rested on her, and back up to him. Freddie wondered briefly if he’d done, or said, something wrong.

“Should we?” she whispered as she leaned down to put the vodka on the floor and out of the way.

“Should we what?” said Freddie.

She answered by kissing him. Too rough, too needy, too much for Freddie all at once. He tried to relax into it, tried to find a way to enjoy it as she leaned into him, guided him down on her bed, climbed onto him and worked hard and tirelessly to wake his body up, to pull some kind of reaction from him.

It was okay, he thought, the way she touched him. The way she unbuttoned his trousers and stroked his cock, the way she bit and kissed his neck, the way she moved her hips against his thigh. But her voice, the softness of her hold, the smell of her perfume, the way she called his name it was all wrong.

She flopped on her bed next to him to shimmy out of her trousers and climbed back on to Freddie once she had. Freddie considered letting her go, letting her have him for the night. It was worth a shot. But he knew from the way his stomach turned when she leaned over him and reached back to guide his cock in, that there was no way, even passively, that he could enjoy it.

“No—no, stop,” said Freddie.

“What’s wrong?” said Victoria, her nose inches from his.

“I can’t do this, Vicky, I’m sorry,” said Freddie. She groaned and rolled off him, fumbling in the sliver of space left on her bed between Freddie and the wall.

“Is it me?” said Victoria. “Roger’s been fucking Jo since they first met and you haven’t touched me once in three months—”

“It’s me,” said Freddie. He reached between them and threaded his fingers through hers. She squeezed his hand gently in return. “It’s all me. Vicky, I don’t—I don’t think I like women.”

She shifted onto her side to better look at Freddie laid next to her. “You what?”

Freddie smiled up at her, trying to ignore and prevent the tears welling in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Victoria. She pressed a hand to his chest, her brow furrowed in worry. She wiped the few stray tears that fell towards Freddie’s ears.

He muttered another apology as the tears came a little faster and he rubbed his eyes rough to stop them, to wipe them away. She kept a hand on his chest, occasionally reaching up to fiddle with his hair. And she looked at him for a long time, really looked and really _saw_ him.

“So it’s not Jo that you’re distracted by then,” said Victoria. Freddie bit his cheek and shook his head. Victoria sighed, deep and full of grief before she laid back down next to him. She did him the service of curling up at his side, pressing her face to his shoulder while he tried and a few times failed to hold back tears. Her hand draped over his chest, feeling every uneven breath, her thumb rubbed circles against the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ve wasted your time,” croaked Freddie.

“It wasn’t all a waste,” said Victoria. And Freddie knew she was right. Knew that as friends they had a ball. If Roger and Jo weren’t looming over their shoulders, if they both forgot for a moment or two that sex was an eventuality between them, they had fun. But, even with the scattered good times, Freddie knew she’d been worrying over why he wouldn’t touch her ever since they met. Knew he’d given her that insecurity that came with a silently unfulfilled relationship.

“I’m still sorry,” said Freddie. She kissed his cheek and sat up, searching for the trousers she’d carelessly thrown in the heat in the moment. Freddie sat up and tugged his trousers back up as well.

“I—I want to…do you want to talk about all this?” Victoria put a hand to her forehead, her eyes red rimmed from the late hour and the disappointing blow Freddie’d given her. “I’ve got the day off tomorrow so…don’t mind staying up.”

“Only if you mean it,” said Freddie.

“Sure I do,” said Victoria sadly. She picked up the vodka and sat on her bed, pressing her back to the wall and inviting Freddie to do the same.

He wasn’t sure who the talking was for really. For his own sake, to vent a bit, or for her sake, to hear how far from her fault this was. She asked about his childhood, about when he’d realised, and Freddie didn’t have an answer. He’d been so used to pretending he hadn’t realised he could no longer pinpoint when he actually had. She asked if he was virgin, and he laughed when she did.

She asked him if the reason he could sleep with past girlfriends but not her was because of her looks, her personality, some quality she had. Freddie reassured her it was none of those things, that it was all just Roger. He’d had crushes before but he’d never indulged them to the point of jealousy. He’d always made it clear in his own mind that the men he liked were friends and they’d only ever be friends. But something snapped with Roger, something about him made it impossible for Freddie to ignore what he felt. And Victoria was the innocent bystander while it all happened.

He reassured her as much as he could that there wasn’t a thing about her that he’d change. That nothing she did or could’ve done would’ve altered the outcome. And he hoped that when she fell asleep against him it was a calm sleep rather than pure exhaustion.

~~~

Freddie didn’t know how to tell Roger what happened. There was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d somehow failed him. That his inability to keep a woman was something Roger would be off put or disappointed by. So he didn’t. He avoided the topic of Victoria, and cut conversations about Jo and a night out as the four of them short. It wasn’t so unusual for Freddie to dodge questions or chitchat about Jo and Victoria, but his answers were short, even for him.

“Freddie Bulsara!” screamed Roger as he slammed the front door. Freddie, in his desk chair, jumped and reached to pull the needle off his record.

“Yes, Rog?” called Freddie. He meandered out of his room when he heard Roger slamming things down on their kitchen counter. Freddie looked closer and saw that he was slamming down a bottle of Southern Comfort. “What’s the occasion?”

“What’s the fucking occasion?” said Roger. “You split with Victoria a _week_ ago and I’m hearing it from Jo just now? The fuck’s that, Fred?” Roger turned around and noisily shifted the silverware in the drawer around until he found a knife and started cutting the plastic off the top .

“I’m sorry?” said Freddie, unsure if he was technically in the wrong for this one.

“No,” said Roger, twisting the lid off. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’ve been so absorbed in my own stupid fucking world I didn’t even notice anything’d changed.”

“It’s…” Freddie felt awkward accepting the apology for something Roger really couldn’t have noticed. “It’s fine.”

“Still,” Roger reached and grabbed two glasses, “I’m your best friend, I’m supposed to get you through these types of things so that’s just what I’m going to do.” He handed Freddie a filled glass.

“Oh,” Freddie took the glass from him and took a shallow sip of the whiskey inside. He preferred clear alcohol usually, it didn’t weigh so heavy in his stomach the way whiskey and bourbon did, but he’d never tell Roger that. “I’m okay really.”

“Don’t be a hero,” Roger put a hand on his shoulder. “Chug that, we’re going out.”

“Why’d you pour these if we’re going out,” began Freddie with a nervous eye on the amount of whiskey in his glass. Roger shushed him and tapped the bottom of his glass to urge him to keep drinking. Once Freddie’s swallowed it whole, Roger did the same with an invigorated hiss.

“Because,” said Roger, “we are broke, and I can’t buy you many drinks at the pub. Drink as much as you like, I need a piss and then were going, no arguments.”

Freddie couldn’t help smile as Roger pushed past him and hurried to their bathroom. He thought about telling Roger he wasn’t terribly broken up about his and Victoria’s split. But the idea of a night out with him, with him buying their drinks, was too enticing. He drank another few big swigs of the whiskey. Roger caught him midway and cheered him on, and the two made their way out onto the streets.

~~~

Roger was counting change at the bar by the time he ordered their second pints. Freddie made him swear that was the end of it. They could go home to more whiskey if they really needed it and Roger’s wallet had to agree. He felt the need to feign sadness, to become gloomy just so Roger would feel accomplished when he cheered him up. But Freddie couldn’t stop smiling at the way Roger poked and prodded him with conversation. Trying to get him talking, get him throughly distracted. He’d long ago accomplished that though, without knowing it he was mostly demonstrating how well he captivated Freddie.

“What’s your favourite song?” said Roger.

“In the whole world?” laughed Freddie. “How should I know?”

Roger’s foot left the support of his barstool to kick Freddie’s leg. “Go on, give me something. Something that is loaded into the jukebox preferably.”

“How subtle,” said Freddie with a laugh. “But I know you ran out of change so don’t bother, it’s fine.”

“I was just going to ask someone for it, people are generous,” said Roger.

“I like this song playing now anyway,” said Freddie.

“I can’t even make it out,” laughed Roger.

“Neither can I,” said Freddie, nearly choking on a sip of his pint when he tried to laugh with Roger.

“You know what we should do?” said Roger, leaning in to Freddie a bit too close. Freddie felt his heart jump. He settled it by reminding himself that Roger was tipsy.

“What’s that?” said Freddie.

Roger jerked his chin in the direction of the abandoned stage at the back. Stage was a strong word for a few microphones and a stool, but it was technically elevated a few inches off the ground.

“What exactly is the idea though?” said Freddie. “Perform?”

“We all know you’ve got that _voice_ , I sing all right as well, let’s duet. Might get some of our money back in tips,” said Roger with a grin that Freddie couldn’t say no too.

It was unfortunate for the owner that Roger had done enough live playing to know how to set up and turn on his own microphone, even while drunk. And even more unfortunately for the owner, and the customers, they hadn’t decided on anything to sing before they’d loudly sputtered microphone feedback through the speakers.

Roger confidently addressed the pub with his slurred words, promising Freddie’s vocal stylings would bring them all tears, or something along those lines. Freddie wasn’t listening too intently to his words, focused more on the way he looked under the dim pub lights with a bright smile spread across his face and a microphone in his hand. Freddie heard the string of ‘fuck off’s and ‘shut up’s thrown at them, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, not when Roger looked at him, his bright blue eyes shining, and told him to sing along with the jukebox.

It was hard to hear at first, what was already being played over the speakers, but Freddie figured it out soon enough, and Roger joined in quick. _I Think We’re Alone Now_ , at least that’s what Freddie hoped was playing because that’s what they were confidently singing into a shared microphone. The ‘fuck off’s and boos didn’t stop but they lessened, and a few of the totally drunk customers joined in, off key and off tempo but smiling all the same.

They got a few claps from the more inebriated members of the audience and downed their pints as fast as they could while the owner told them to get the hell out. Freddie stumbled over his own feet out onto the pavement, Roger close behind, quick to wrap an arm around his neck.

“So do you think we’ve got to go pick the Grammy up or do they bring it right to us?” said Roger.

“I don’t think that was my worst performance,” said Freddie with a grin.

“I can’t imagine you giving a bad performance, your voice is killer,” said Roger casually. His arm fell down Freddie’s shoulders, down his back, down his hips, until it left him entirely. “That was by far the most ‘fuck you’s I’ve ever had yelled at me while on stage.”

“They’ve all just got horrid taste, that’s what it is,” said Freddie, feigning sincerity and letting a laugh break his facade.

Roger laughed along with him. And hummed the song. The tune was in Freddie’s head, he knew it’d be a long while before it ever left. “I think it might’ve gone over better if I knew all the words.”

“Your mumbling was in key, who cares?”

“Something something something…put…something…put your _arms around me and you say—I think we’re alone now_. Shit what comes before that?”

“It goes, ‘trying to get away into the night, then you put your arms around me _as we tumble to the ground_ and _then_ you say— _I think we’re alone now_ ’,” said Freddie with a laugh.

“Ah, who gives a fuck what happens before the chorus,” said Roger with a wave of his hand. “God, it’ll be in my head all week.”

“That’s sort of the point isn’t it?” said Freddie as they rounded the corner to their flat.

“It’s kitsch, it’s not art,” said Roger matter-of-factly.

“Oh as if you wouldn’t be pleased reaping the benefits of an earworm like that,” said Freddie. He pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked their door.

“I would probably take the hit to my musical integrity if it meant it were easier to afford rent,” said Roger. He hung his jacked up on the hook by their door. “Sit, I’ll get the whiskey.”

“More?” said Freddie.

“I’m not tired,” said Roger bluntly. “Turn something on. Anything but fucking Tommy Jones.”

Freddie wouldn’t complain about Roger staying up with him. So he hung his jacket up and thumbed through their vinyls until he found something he liked and set it on the spinner.

“Funny that song,” said Roger, returning from the kitchen with two overfilled glasses of whiskey.

“What’s funny?” Freddie took the glass and sat by Roger, hesitating when their thighs pressed together, but leaning into it when Roger didn’t flinch.

“Why’s their love so forbidden?” Roger laughed and brought the whiskey to his lips.

“Youth or something?” said Freddie.

“Maybe,” said Roger. He took another sip. “That was fun. Maybe I can convince Tim to step down as lead singer and let you join. He’s a much better bassist than a singer.”

“He’s a good singer,” said Freddie into his glass.

“You’re better,” said Roger. “More fun on stage too.”

“Thanks,” said Freddie, a bit more shy.

“Can I ask you something, Fred,” said Roger, his voice a little lower than before. Freddie nodded and finished off his whiskey. “Why’d you break it off with Victoria?”

For all the time he’d had to prepare an answer, he didn’t have one ready. “I don’t know,” he blurted out. “I just don’t click with her the way you clicked with Jo.”

“I guess not,” said Roger. “You know Jo said, awhile back at least, that Victoria was worried you didn’t like her ‘cause you liked Jo.” Roger turned to look at him. Freddie did too. Roger looked calm but Freddie felt panic rising in his throat.

“No—no, of course not, I’ve never wanted Jo,” said Freddie as quickly as he could. The speed making his words a little less convincing.

“It’s fine if you have,” said Roger with a laugh. “It’s not like you’d do anything.”

“I promise,” said Freddie, his words more desperate, “she’s a good friend that’s all.”

Roger looked at him equal parts confused and convinced. “Well _someone’s_ got you distracted.”

“What d’you mean?” The whiskey started to catch up with Freddie’s words.

“Victoria thought you wanted Jo because of the way you look at us together. Said you barely notice she’s there because of it. So if it’s not Jo…” Roger’s words trailed and the silence filled in the blank.

“She’s seeing things I guess,” said Freddie, his heart thumping against his ribcage at a breakneck speed.

Roger hummed and kept his eyes on Freddie. He brought his arm up to rest behind Freddie, across the back of their couch, and took in a deep breath. Freddie stayed perfectly still, not daring to move, to breathe, to think. Roger stared for a moment longer, and sighed, before he leant into Freddie. He moved slow and deliberate, giving Freddie as much time as he needed to pull away. And when Freddie didn’t, he kissed him. Gentle and soft in a way Freddie didn’t think Roger was capable of. Roger’s hand pressed against Freddie’s chest, tentative and unsure of what to do next but still resting there, still touching him. Freddie thought he might reciprocate, might reached out for Roger in some way, but his hand floated between them, too hesitant and nervous to move any further.

Roger pulled away first, his hand still firm against Freddie. Freddie stared at him, heart pounding under Roger’s palm, his mind racing even faster than that. “Why’s your heart beating so fast?” whispered Roger.

“Why did you kiss me?” whispered Freddie in reply. Freddie couldn’t be sure in the lighting, but he thought he saw a distinct flush of pink across Roger’s cheeks.

“I don’t know,” said Roger, his hand sliding down off Freddie’s chest. “I thought you might want me to…Did you want me to?”

“I don’t know,” said Freddie.

Roger looked like he might speak again, like he might say something that would ruin it, that would spoil the moment with over-explanation that Freddie didn’t want to hear.

“We’ve had a lot of whiskey,” said Freddie with a fake laugh.

“We have,” said Roger, his face still serious, his pupils wide enough that the black almost covered the striking blue of his eyes.

“Let’s go to bed,” said Freddie, shifting away from him as he stood up. Freddie put the record that had been playing away while Roger stood and stretched. Freddie watched Roger turn out lights from the mouth of the hall, not wanting to get closer but not wanting to leave him alone just yet. “I had a lot of fun tonight.”

“I did too,” Roger tugged the pullchain down on the last lit lamp and filled the apartment with darkness. “We should do it again sometime.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Sorry for the delay on this one! Things have been so hectic with everything going on that I barely had time to relax and write, but here is the next chapter! Please comment if you like it <333

Freddie, for once, felt lucky to have to be in the studio early for the work he’d, to put it nicely, procrastinated on. Work he continued to procrastinate on. He wasn’t sure why but he didn’t want to see Roger. Didn’t want to hear Roger try and laugh off what happened as a stupid drunken mistake, didn’t want to have to join in the laughter to save his own arse.

The limbo of not speaking meant he could still imagine it meant all to Roger what it did to him. It also happened to coincide with a final project he was far, far from completing. The long hours of work and the two or three nights of arriving home and going straight to bed were believable, were something he could pass off as totally unaffected or motivated by what happened.

On his fourth morning of dodging Roger, he stepped to avoid the creakier floorboards as he meandered to the kitchen, fully dressed, for one quick gulp of piping hot coffee that would burn his throat before he set out to the studio. It’d been his routine for the last three days but was a stark contrast to his usual routine of waking up late, getting dressed in stages as he wandered around their flat, and sauntering out once he’d had a good thirty minutes to ruminate over his coffee. He missed that routine dearly.

“Good morning!” said Roger as Freddie took one very calculated step into the kitchen. Freddie whipped around, nearly tripping over himself in shock while Roger waved to him from their couch, mug of coffee in his hand. “You’re dressed already?”

“Er—studio again, got to be in early,” said Freddie. He hurried into the kitchen and poured a bit of cream in his coffee. To stop it burning his tongue too badly more than to alter the flavour.

“Studio huh?” said Roger.

“Studio,” repeated Freddie.

“You’re not being very clever,” said Roger, a bit quieter.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Freddie stirred his coffee in the doorway of the kitchen absentmindedly, not waiting for any sugar to melt.

“I wouldn’t have done it if I knew you’d stop speaking to me.” Freddie felt his face heat up and looked away from Roger’s piercing gaze, focusing on the toe of his boots.

“I’m speaking to you right now aren’t I, darling,” said Freddie.

“I haven’t seen you in days,” said Roger with a humourless laugh. “I’m not an idiot, Fred, you’re avoiding me.”

“I am not.”

“Then come sit,” Roger patted the spot on the couch next to him, “sit and chat.”

Freddie huffed, trying to pretend it was all very silly, and sat on the couch. His hands tight around his mug, his eyes focused on the wallpaper opposite them.

“God,” groaned Roger. He uncrossed his legs and slammed his coffee down. “You’re being a real prick about this.”

“I’m not _doing_ anything.” He only dared to meet Roger’s eyes a few times.

“You haven’t spoken to me in two days,” said Roger. “I passed you on the street yesterday and you didn’t even wave back.” Freddie knew he’d never convince Roger that was a genuine mistake. “I’m sorry I kissed you. I didn’t think it would fucking end our fucking friendship.”

“And it hasn’t!” said Freddie, a bit too defensive. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Bullshit.” Roger sighed and picked his coffee back up, resting against the back of the couch more comfortably. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It wasn’t,” said Freddie. Though he wished it was. “But why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know,” said Roger, his cheeks going a bit red and an awkward laugh escaping him. “We were drunk, I thought you wanted me to, all a strange blur.”

“Well, I’m not gay,” said Freddie. Roger looked to him. “Are you?”

“No,” said Roger quietly, “no I’m not. Just a kiss. Drunk kiss.”

“But…but why’d you do it?” said Freddie. He wasn’t sure how much further he could push it with Roger, how much more detail he could wring out of him. All for nothing. All to confirm what he already knew, that Roger had too much to drink, that sober he’d never do something like that.

“I told you already, I thought you wanted me to.”

“Yes, so…why would you do it,” repeated Freddie.

“Oh,” said Roger. He cocked his head and stayed silent for a moment, mulling it over while Freddie held his breath. “Dunno. Wasn’t thinking too much that night.”

“Neither was I,” said Freddie.

“Are you satisfied now?” Roger put a hand on his back. “Can we end the shunning now?”

“I wasn’t...” began Freddie. Roger stared at him, a silent plea to stop the charade, to stop pretending his scurrying off to studio was normal. “Yes, we can end the shunning.”

“Good!” Roger clapping his hands on his knees and stood, taking his empty mug with him. “Just in time because your favourite band has a gig tonight and I’m forcing you to come.”

“Is Jo coming?” said Freddie, nerves clear in his voice.

“‘Course she is, but don’t worry, Victoria isn’t tagging along.”

“What a relief,” said Freddie, tenser than ever.

~~~

Something about seeing Roger on stage, no matter what mood he was in, brought him up. Walking into the little hall of some secondary school he felt out of place and out of sorts and a little embarrassed to be there almost. But it’d be worth it, all that anxiety would melt right off when he saw Roger give his little wave to the audience before confidently sitting behind the kit.

They had no official bar, though Freddie saw a few drinks in a few people’s hands. He didn’t think he’d try and find out where they’d got them from, he didn’t exactly have money to burn. So he stood near the front of the stage but not too close. Brian once complained that he’d taken the spot of a fan. When Freddie pointed out he was technically a fan, Brian said he felt more like a part of the band. Ever since, Freddie gave up his spots at the front for the fans.

He scanned over the people near to him, looking for Jo, knowing she’d be coming up at some point, she was too friendly not to. He felt like he needed a heads up to talk to her, a moment of preparation as if he owed her an explanation for breaking it off with her friend. As if she’d be expecting a carefully constructed excuse.

“There you are!” came Jo’s voice from behind him. Freddie braced himself and turned around. She hugged him hello as she always did and stood at his side with a beer in her hand. “Your curls are so big I could see you soon as I walked in.”

“I’ve got to do something about them, I’m starting to look like Brian.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.” She shifting from foot to foot, forward and back while they both tried not to pay attention to the obvious. Tried to let the silence sink in until the show started. At least, Freddie tried. “So…Vicky told me what happened.”

“Oh?” said Freddie. On the surface, that didn’t bother him. Victoria agreed to keep his secret for him, and in return Freddie offered to let Victoria tell everyone she broke it off with him. But the more Jo looked at him the more Freddie was convinced that wasn’t the story she heard. “Oh.”

“I know you asked her not to but she was so broken up and I was so upset for her she just,” Jo tapped her nails on her beer bottle, “she didn’t want me making anything worse so…”

“Okay,” said Freddie, unsure exactly of what she was getting at. “I’m…sorry?”

“Oh no—Sorry,” Jo laughed at herself, “maybe this was more something I should’ve just never addressed.”

“No it’s okay,” said Freddie, though he really wished she’d just kept it to herself. He felt on some level he owed Victoria an explanation for why he’d been so distance, why he’d treated her with so little intimacy. A promise and an explanation that it wasn’t her doing. But he didn’t like that she knew, and he really didn’t like that Jo knew.

“I didn’t want you to think I was harbouring any ill will is all,” said Jo, as friendly as she could. She meant well, she always did, but now he had to trust her with his best kept secret that was quickly spreading.

“Thanks, that’s…thanks.” Was he supposed to thank her, supposed to be glad she knew, glad she had this power over him now. Glad she could, at any time, tell Roger the truth.

Freddie snapped out of his panic when he saw the three of them take the stage. Roger waved to him and Jo, though Freddie had a feeling it was mostly to Jo, and sat behind his kit. It was easy to get lost in the music. Roger’s face was always painted with concentration in a way that Brian and Tim’s weren’t. He often complained to Freddie that little venues couldn’t handle his full drum sound, that he had to keep it just below full volume, that it required some focus. But he never missed a beat. Not even when he swung his mic in to harmonise with the other two.

There were times, mostly in his head, he thought Roger might be singing right to him, might be playing for him. It was a nice thought, a nice way to layer frosting on the cake of the performance. And when the set was over, no one cheered louder than Freddie, not even Jo. There was a certain air, an image, the three of them wanted to give off to their crowd. So they didn’t strike Roger’s drumkit instantly. Five minutes and there would be half the crowd as before, half the people who had to watch Roger struggle off stage with his drums.

“How were we?” said Roger, jumping off stage and wrapped his arms around Jo.

“Wonderful as always,” said Jo.

“Fantastic, darling,” said Freddie with as much enthusiasm as he could have around Jo.

“Heard you scream,” said Roger with a bright grin aimed right at Freddie. “You ought to do that at more of our shows.”

“Wouldn’t want to steal your thunder,” said Freddie. Roger rolled his eyes and took a sip from Jo’s beer. Freddie noticed it looked fuller than before but couldn’t remember her leaving to get a second one. Too focused on the show, too focused on Roger to notice she’d left his side. “Need any help with the drums?”

“I prefer to make Brian help, keeps him humble,” said Roger. He clapped Freddie’s shoulder, squeezing gently and mumbling that he needed to find the dolly he’d hauled his drums in with.

~~~

Freddie had brought himself to the show, taken the train and walked, and could do that again to get home. But he wanted to ride with Roger. And Jo wanted to give him one last goodnight before she drove home. But both were considering getting up and leaving when Tim called a band meeting. An informal meeting held at the back of Roger’s van. A meeting neither he nor Jo were invited to. They sat by the back entrance to the performance hall and speculated back and forth what they were talking about. What they were so angry about. It kept them entertained for a minute or two but as they came up on ten minutes they leaned further into a comfortable silence and blank staring in the direction of the band.

“I can’t stay,” groaned Jo. “Tell him I have classes early tomorrow, I can’t wait for them to sort this out.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand,” said Freddie as Jo hoisted herself to her feet.

“Give him my love.” She fished in her purse for her car keys. “Tell him whatever the issue was is not as bad as it seems. Which is the best advice I can give not knowing the situation.”

“I’ll let him know,” laughed Freddie.

“G’night, Freddie,” said Jo with a breathy laugh as she started towards the parking lot.

“Night, Jo.”

It was another minute or two before Tim held up his hands, reached down for his bass and walked away from the two of them. Freddie nearly stood up, hopeful that the waiting was finally over but noticed how quickly Brian and Roger got to talking. They were calmer then, which Freddie was glad to see, he hated riding home with Roger in a foul mood. Brian turned to him once, twice, then Roger did the same. Looking in his direction and talking nonstop about something. Freddie crossed his arms over his chest, wondering what the hell they could be saying, but he knew the second he stood up they’d stop saying it.

It was only when Brian handed his guitar off to Roger and passed Freddie on his way back inside, that Freddie stood up and stretched his legs. He started towards the van and Roger waved him over, asking for a little more urgency in his steps, so Freddie sped up his cold shuffling feet to meet him.

“Where’s Brian gone?” said Freddie.

“Collecting our payment,” said Roger. “He’s too nice, he’ll end up giving it right back.”

“He can be tough,” said Freddie. He and Roger looked at each other, grins forming, both very aware that that was not true. “So go on, tell me what that big long meeting was about.”

“Tim quit,” said Roger, his jaw clenching.

“Shit,” said Freddie.

“Yeah,” Roger sighed. “Shit.”

“Did he say why?”

Roger shrugged. “New band wants him. So he fucked off with them.”

“Doesn’t seem like Tim.”

“Yes it does,” Roger patted his pockets for his cigarettes and sighed when he realised he wasn’t even wearing his jacket. “It’s all a laugh to him, he doesn’t care about this the way we do. The way I do at least. Too focused on his fucking art.”

“Well, I guess maybe it’s good he left,” said Freddie. “It’ll make room for someone more serious about it.”

“About that,” Roger looked at Freddie with a strange mix of confidence and desperation, “how would you feel about being that person?”

“Being? What—Tim’s replacement?” laughed Freddie. “Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not.” Roger took a half step towards him. “I know you have the voice. I know you have the stage presence. I _know_ you could do it.”

“You think?” said Freddie, sounding more shy than he’d done his whole life.

“It’s not set in stone, Brian may want to hold auditions still, but I know you’d be perfect for it,” said Roger, hand reaching out for Freddie’s arm.

“I’d—I’d love to,” said Freddie, a little giddy, and a little embarrassed by the giddiness.

“Yes!” said Roger, grabbing both Freddie’s arms and jostling them in excitement. “Yes! Yes—this could work, this could—I need a fag.” Roger hurried to the driver’s side door on the far side of his van. Freddie followed and watched him rummage around for his cigarettes. “This’ll be perfect, you already know the songs. You’ll fit right in, we won’t have to miss a beat, we won’t even have to miss a fucking _show_.” Roger turned around with cigarettes in hand and grinned at Freddie like he’d won the lottery.

“Doesn’t Brian still have to approve?” said Freddie, pressing his back against the body of the van. Roger offered him a cigarette that he declined with a wave of his hand. Roger pulled out a single cigarette, put it between his parted lips and began his search for his lighter. “I’ve got one,” muttered Freddie as he patted his pockets for his lighter. Roger took a few steps towards him, put one of his feet between Freddie’s boots and leaned in close to let Freddie light his cigarette for him.

He made sure to blow the smoke away from Freddie, but never took his eyes off him. “Brian’s never going to find a singer better than you.”

“Your damn right he isn’t,” laughed Freddie. Roger laughed but it faded fast. Faded into a soft smile and half-lidded eyes. Eyes that kept staring at Freddie. “Are you…are you gonna kiss me?” whispered Freddie.

“No,” said Roger, “no I’m not.”

He took the cigarette from his lips and flicked it onto the ground to his right, letting it simmer and die on the concrete. Then he took Freddie’s face in his hands and leaned in quick to kiss him. Freddie sighed into it, almost relieved to have Roger on him again. Roger hummed in response and pressed him a little harder into the side of the van. Ran a hand through his hair, ran the other across his lower back, swiped his tongue across Freddie’s bottom lip.

“Someone’ll see,” said Freddie, breaking away briefly.

“No they won’t,” replied Roger. Which was more than enough for Freddie.

He clung to him helplessly, tugging his shirt, feeling his back muscles under his finger tips as Roger’s tongue slid effortlessly into Freddie’s mouth. He tasted like the cigarette he’d just discarded, but Freddie didn’t mind. The more Roger demonstrated how well he could use his tongue, his mouth, his teeth, the more Freddie wished they weren’t in the back lot of some school, weren’t hiding in the shadow of Roger’s van. As he pulled Roger’s hips in against his own, as he felt Roger grind against him, subtly but firmly, he wondered if maybe they could just get in the back and lock the doors for as long as it took.

“Rog?” a slam of one of the back doors to Roger’s van pulled them apart in a hurry. “I got the money, but it wasn’t easy.” Another slam. “Where’d you go?”

“Getting my fags,” said Roger, hurrying away from Freddie to shut the driver’s side door, really sell the lie. He put a new cigarette in his mouth and rushed around to meet Brian at the back of the van. Freddie meekly joined them and watched quietly as Brian offered Roger a light.

“Why do you two look so guilty,” said Brian with a laugh that faded quickly. Freddie held his breath, and found his mind had gone completely blank in terms of excuses, believable ones anyway. Brian turned to Roger in that moment of silence, his eyes full of accusation. “Oh you didn’t offer him the job did you?”

“I made it clear it wasn’t set in stone,” said Roger, Freddie could practically hear the breath of relief in his words.

“I’d love for you to join,” said Brian to Freddie, “but I’d rather not decide it right this minute, you know?”

“Of course, dear,” said Freddie with a noncommittal wave of his hand, “take all the time you need.”

“I will say though,” Brian looked over his shoulder as if it were top secret, as if anyone but them cared about their lineup, “I doubt I’ll be able to find a singer of your calibre.”

“I told you,” said Roger, grinning at Freddie.

“Well—again nothing’s for certain but,” Brian’s words trailed off, the sentiment clear enough. He said his goodnights, picked his guitar up, and headed to his car. Roger, without a word, headed for the driver’s seat. Freddie did the same on the opposite side.

He started the van, picked the radio station, then another, then another, then buckles his seatbelt, then unbuckled it, then buckled it again. His leg bounced hard and fast enough to shake the van. He fiddled with the air vents though they both knew his vents broke ages ago, then reached out to adjust his side mirror. Then blew the smoke from his cigarette out the window and rested a shaking hand on his temple, dragging it down his jaw and neck and reaching back to rub his shoulders.

“I’m not gay,” said Roger.

“Neither am I,” replied Freddie, his posture perfect, his hands folded in his lap.

“Okay,” said Roger with a heavy breath out. “Okay,” he repeated with more enthusiasm. He shifted gears and put the van in first. “You’re not going to start avoiding me again are you?” He looked at Freddie with a grin, a fake grin covering real concern.

“No, no I won’t,” said Freddie, just as tense.

“Good.” Roger pulled out from the carpark into the street. Freddie was silent while Roger drove. He’d let go of the wheel occasionally to rub his sore neck to squeeze his shoulders. Eventually he chucked his cigarette out the window and gripped the steering wheel too tight with both hands. Freddie knew saying it didn’t matter wouldn’t help, knew promising he knew Roger was straight wouldn’t help. It would all sound so insincere and fake against the background of that kiss. That sober kiss.

So he let the radio play and stared out his window. Eventually a song came on that they both knew. A song that Freddie started humming and that Roger joined in with quickly. Humming turned to singing, turned to belting. And though they couldn’t really speak, couldn’t find any words that would offer either of them any help in that moment, they could sing together. Could look over at each other while they performed their hearts out, could laugh at the other when they stumbled on lyrics, could try to form three part harmonies around songs that didn’t need them the rest of the ride home.

When the van stopped, when the radio stopped, they weren’t any more flush with words. So they stayed quiet and offered each other nothing but goodnights before shutting their bedroom doors.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! So this chapter took me awhile, it comes in at a little over 8k so I hope it was worth the wait! Your comments have been so lovely thank you to every single person who left and one and please leave more if you like this chapter <333

Freddie leaned into it. The morning following, he pretended nothing had changed, and for all intents and purposes nothing had. Roger went along with it. Not pulling away, not avoiding glances, not flinching when touched. That’s all Freddie needed. He didn’t care to talk about why it happened or what it meant, he’d much rather keep Roger around and from the looks of it he couldn’t have both. So he didn’t take more than he was given. It was in the past, a mistake.

“C’mon, Fred, we need money,” screamed Roger from the front door. Freddie, holed away in his room, tugged his boots on and promised he’d be right there. He rushed out with his laces undone and Roger held the door open for him. He took his time locking the door on their way out, letting Freddie tie up his laces before they started walking.

“Y’know Brian’s applying for a real job as a teacher,” said Freddie once they made it to the corner of their block.

“God, if I ever get a proper job just kill me,” said Roger, only half laughing. “By the way, we’re practicing tomorrow afternoon. I know we normally practice during those classes you skip, so we’re trying to reserve the hall a bit later, dunno if they’ll let us.”

“I can do earlier if it helps,” said Freddie.

“It doesn’t,” said Roger with a groan, “God forbid Brian wake up before noon.”

“As if we’re much better.” Freddie noted the time on his watch, shoving it in Roger’s face, half past nine and they had only just left their flat.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be much fun to have a straightlaced guitarist, but we’ve only got, what? Five days ’til our next show,” Roger pulled a cigarette from his pocket, offering one to Freddie who took it and held it but didn’t quite inhale the way he was supposed to. He’d never learned to do it properly, without coughing all over the place and making a fool of himself. “You look just as silly sucking on that as you would coughing on it.”

“I’m just not made for these,” Freddie waved the cigarette around, frustrated.

“You’re a rock star now,” Roger grinned at him, bright and sunny, “got to look the part.”

“Suppose so,” said Freddie, a little dazed, a little dizzy.

Whoever held the money box at their stall was technically on break. No sales pitches, no waving down customers just guarding the money. For the morning it’d been Roger, coming into the late morning it was Freddie, coming over the hump of noon and the afternoon it was both of them, each with a hand on the cold metal of the box lazily watching customers walk by, no effort made to entice them into their stall.

“Maybe Brian’s on to something,” said Roger.

“Are you kidding?” Freddie leaned further back in his chair. “If we had proper jobs we couldn’t look this miserable.”

“We could we’d just be told off,” Roger kicked his feet up on the counter they made themselves, something they both felt made them look a bit more proper than just a stall, something to make customers stop by more often. “Besides, not many jobs out there we could work together.”

“Suppose there aren’t,” said Freddie, a smile on his face. He knew he liked living with, working with, being with Roger, and more consciously he knew Roger felt the same. But it was nice to hear it.

Roger turned his head to him, “hey, Fred?”

“Hm?” said Freddie, doing the same and squinting into the glare of the sun. Roger’s hair was the sort of brown that caught the light brilliantly, that shone in the sun, that haloed around him as the sun silhouetted him.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Roger.

“Imagine that,” added Freddie.

“Would you ever draw me?” said Roger. “Y’know properly?”

“I’ve drawn you plenty,” said Freddie.

“But I’m always drumming when you do.”

“So?” said Freddie with a shrug.

“So I’d like to have on official drawing, one where I’ve got legs,” said Roger with a smirk.

“It’s so boring,” said Freddie. “The university pays the models such a high rate because sitting perfectly still for forty five minutes is much harder than it looks.”

“I thought the rate was so high because they were all naked,” said Roger, his eyes drifted to the street to follow the tall, thin woman walking by their stall.

“You want to pose nude?” said Freddie, trying to sound professional but clenching the money box in his hand at the thought.

“‘Course not,” laughed Roger. “But I assumed that’d be the hardest part.”

“If you want to, I will. But it’s no picnic,” said Freddie.

“I hope I can master sitting still,” teased Roger.

“You might actually not be able to,” laughed Freddie. Roger rolled his eyes and shifted closer to Freddie, lightening the uncomfortable weight of the money box suspended in their grips.

Freddie could’ve stayed like that all day, all night. Roger’s shoulder pressing into his own, his breathing deep and sleepy as the end of the day closed in on them. Freddie glanced over to him after a few beats of silence and saw his eyes had slipped closed. Freddie knew he wasn’t alone in loving Roger’s eyes, but he also knew he loved them the most. His lashes, so dark and impossibly long, splayed across his cheeks as he tried to nap in his chair. The sun beamed across his face, orange and dark enough not to bother him, but bright enough to really accentuate the beautiful bridge of his nose, curve of his lips, hard edge of his jaw.

“Freddie,” said a distant female voice. “Freddie,” she repeated.

Freddie snapped out of his adoration long enough to see Jo standing there. Awkward smile across her face as she waved hello to him. He’d done nothing wrong, he knew that. But Jo had caught him staring, caught him admiring, and there was no sense in trying to pretend she’d seen anything other than Freddie ogling her boyfriend.

“Is he asleep?” she whispered.

“Not all the way,” mumbled Roger.

“C’mon, Roggie, get up, we’ve got a date with Victoria’s new friend,” said Jo. Roger whined, as he always did when he had to wake up, but handed the money box to Freddie and stretched his arms out.

“You mind closing?” said Roger, rubbing his tired eyes.

“No, sure, I can do it,” said Freddie with a smile. Roger grinned back and thanked him before taking Jo’s hand and following her lead down the street and out of Freddie’s sight.

~~~

Oils were never Freddie’s forte. Too lengthy of a process. So much drying and waiting and returning to the same old thing day after day after day. He preferred the well defined lines of charcoal. After much fighting with his professor, his final project was allowed to be made in charcoal. Conte and vine, brilliantly black and white and most importantly, finished on time.

None of Freddie’s mates had money, none of them bothered with artist quality fixative. Instead they had a communal bottle of hairspray they passed around to prevent their charcoal smudging. Freddie got a few lungfuls and set his piece out to dry, to adhere tight to the paper, ready to be submitted and marked.

And of course, after scrubbing the charcoal from his fingertips and getting sucked into a conversation on his way out, he was late to meet Roger and Brian. He burst through the rehearsal hall, panting out apologies as he chucked his bag down and kicked it towards the wall.

“Had the—my final piece I had to finish,” said Freddie, out of breath and sweating. Not so much from overexertion but from the three or four times he’d nearly fallen face first down the two stairwells, his heart still hadn’t recovered from the shock of it.

“Roger’s late,” said Brian. Freddie looked around and, sure enough, Roger wasn’t there.

“Take’s a lot to be later than me,” said Freddie.

“He doesn’t need much warm up, honestly. Not as dire that he be here on time. Never tell him I said that though.”

“Is the bassist coming?” said Freddie. Brian shook his head.

“He’s busy and truthfully,” he sucked his teeth, “I think we should keep looking.”

“Why’s that darling?” Freddie brushed his hair back, wiped his forehead and perched himself on the stool next to Brian.

“Nothing wrong per say. He has more opinions than Tim ever did, but I think he and Rog will butt heads pretty quick.” Brian cracked his knuckles. “I don’t know if we really need another argumentative type, Rog and I get into it enough for the whole band.”

“Well you don’t want to hire someone with no backbone. It’s the _bass_ , you need a little kick,” said Freddie.

“There’s a happy medium somewhere,” said Brian with a grin, “hopefully.”

“I’m sure,” said Freddie. “So’s this mean if I start a fight you’ll kick me right out?”

“Of course not,” laughed Brian. “You’ve known me too long to just kick out. I can see you throwing a brick through my window.”

Freddie smiled at him, eyes shut and soft. Brian, so tall so lanky, was such a comfort to have around. Freddie’d known Brian for a long while now. When he met Roger it instantly felt he’d known him a lifetime, and Brian was similar in that way. The bond was different but just as strong.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Roger, throwing the door open, his words slurring into one he’d said them so fast.

“S’all right, that new bassist isn’t coming so,” said Brian. Roger groaned as he dug for his drumsticks in his bag.

“I don’t know if he’s a good fit,” said Roger, still digging. “Bit argumentative isn’t he?”

Brian mouthed ‘see’ to Freddie who grinned. “Well we can keep looking.”

Roger, drumsticks in hand, dropped his bag and meandered behind the kit. Brian plugged his guitar in and Freddie spun on his stool to face them both.

“You know,” said Brian, “it’s good having you sing but I’m going to miss the drawings you did while we practiced, those were amazing.”

“Me too,” said Roger eagerly. He turned to Brian to add, “but he said I could pose for a proper portrait so I’m not complaining.”

“A portrait,” laughed Brian, his fingers absently plucking away at his guitar. “Very regal.”

“Not a painting,” said Roger with fake annoyance. “Just a drawing like he normally does in here, only this time I’m actually sitting still.”

“That’ll be the real challenge,” said Freddie with an awkward laugh. Behind him, Roger’s feet tapped out of habit, shaking the hihat and ghosting the bass drum. “See?”

“ _Good luck_ ,” teased Brian.

Roger counted them off, itching to get playing already, and Freddie jumped right in, as if he’d written the songs himself. His voice had a different timbre to Tim’s but it seemed to mesh well with Brian’s, and Roger’s when it came to it. Freddie liked that, like that his and Roger’s voices could sound so different apart but blend together with ease. The songs sounded sparse and incomplete with no one there to fill in the bass but the three of them sounded like a band. Not perfect, missing notes, speeding up, slowing down, forgetting the tune once or twice, but they melded into each other perfectly. In a way Freddie felt they never had with Tim, something he hoped they felt too.

Brian repeated the phrase ‘I think we have it’ a few times during their playing, and a few times as they packed up together, until Roger told him he’d quit the band if he said it one more time. Brian gave Freddie some words of praise and thanks for singing with them, for joining in Tim’s place. Freddie accepted them all gladly with a sarcastic air of arrogance that made Brian and Roger laugh.

Freddie and Roger had to walk to Roger’s van that he’d parked a few blocks away. Brian went in the opposite direction for his bus back. They said quick goodbyes, Brian made sure they knew when their next rehearsal was, and ran off to catch the bus he was definitely going to miss.

“So are you excited? Nervous? Neutral?” said Roger.

“About what?” replied Freddie.

“About Smile, about this band,” said Roger. They could see his van parked down the road which caused Roger to frantically check his pockets for his keys. Freddie always groaned at the way he’d never check for his keys until it was much too late, but luckily he heard them jingling.

“I feel good,” said Freddie, “I think we sound good, I think we’ll be good.”

“That’s all I get? Good?” said Roger as he pushed his key into the driver’s side door. It was meant to unlock the passenger’s side as well but it never did. Roger hopped inside and reached across to do it manually and let Freddie in.

“I’m not a band virgin, Rog, I have performed before.”

“Yes but now you’ve got _me_ behind you,” said Roger. Freddie laughed but couldn’t help freeze up a little at Roger’s wording.

“I do,” said Freddie, flustered and, on some level, guilty about it. “I—yes I’m more excited to play with the two of you, I am. All of the excitement none of the nerves. Although,” Freddie nearly stopped himself saying anything but the thought was already half formed, “I will miss watching you perform.”

“Oh yeah?” Roger nudged him with his elbow. “You don’t just come for the moral support?”

“No,” said Freddie. “Not at all. When you’re up there it’s…it’s,” he searched his mind for the word that best fit, leaving a silence that made Roger turn to him, his eyes expectant, bright blue and welcoming, “electric.”

“Huh,” breathed Roger, his eyes half lidded and fixed on Freddie’s. “You wanna draw me when we get home?”

“Sure,” said Freddie.

~~~

“Put your arm more, more human,” said Freddie. He’d moved his desk chair to the living room and set it right in front of their telly to get the best angle on Roger who hadn’t stopped lamenting that he chose the couch because he wanted to watch something while Freddie worked.

“Ah thank you,” deadpanned Roger. He shifted his left arm that Freddie hadn’t been able to get into position. Freddie told him to sit comfortably so Roger stretched his legs out, reclined and promised not to fall asleep halfway. But first Freddie needed his arm to look less positioned, more natural. “Just start on my legs and my arm’ll fall naturally while you’re not looking.”

“Okay,” said Freddie, chuckling to himself as he readied his vine charcoal. “Don’t point your toes.”

Roger kept pointing his toes. “So is this what class is like? Just this for hours on end?”

Freddie nodded, eyes trained on Roger’s barely exposed ankles. “Models are their own class, we get a few hours every other day, and they’re always bare.”

“Bare,” said Roger. “You’re so artistic, can’t say starkers gotta say ‘bare’.”

“It’s more polite,” said Freddie as he cracked a grin.

“Fuck polite, they’ve got their bits out,” said Roger. Freddie tried very hard to stifle that laugh and failed, giggling behind his paper. “You ever fucked one of the models?”

“Course not,” said Freddie. “It’s not like that. Not sexual at all, it’s just studying the form.”

“I don’t buy that,” said Roger, turning his head to stare at the ceiling before Freddie tutted at him and told him to move it back.

“It’s true,” said Freddie. “The air in the room is very studious, never sexy. You spend enough hours drawing the same person’s arse you’ll never want to see it again.”

“So if I modeled for you, properly like that, it wouldn’t phase you?” said Roger.

Freddie’s eyes stayed trained on Roger’s legs but his hand made no more marks on the paper. “No, not at all.”

“Not a bit weird since we’re friends?” said Roger.

“Not to me,” said Freddie.

“Then why don’t you?” said Roger. Freddie dared to look at him. What was supposed to be a fleeting glance to see if he was being serious, became a lingering look.

“You want me to?”

“I want to see how you work,” said Roger.

“It’s up to you,” said Freddie, his mouth dry and tongue heavy.

“Then let’s go to your bedroom,” said Roger, jumping up quick.

“Huh?” said Freddie, nearly snapping his vine charcoal.

“I’m not going to sit naked on our couch am I?” laughed Roger. “I deserve nice sheets, pillows too. Come on.”

Freddie watched him head down the hall, heard his bedroom door open and wondered, briefly if he wasn’t dreaming. His clammy hand clasped his desk chair and dragged it back to his room, the whole trek trying to calm himself. Trying to remember that Roger had agreed to do this with the understanding that it wouldn’t be strange.

And normally, when Freddie sat for his modeling class it wasn’t strange. The models were friendly and unashamed, the artists were professional and not so immature or starved that the mere sight of a naked figure set them off. Part of being an artist was a desensitisation to nudity for the sake of learning, for the sake of art. And even with all of that in mind, Freddie’s breath caught when he saw Roger peel his shirt off and jump on his bed.

“How should I be?” said Roger. “What looks best?”

“Er,” Freddie hoped it wasn’t obvious how bad his hand shook when he tried to flip his paper in his sketch book, Roger was too preoccupied with unbuckling his belt to notice, “whatever pose you can hold is good.”

“I don’t want to look like some fainting debutant,” said Roger as he kicked his trousers off.

“A nude reclining on a bed is almost always a fainting debutant,” said Freddie, with a bit of forced humour.

“What’s a pose that’s not demure?” said Roger. He sat crosslegged on Freddie’s sheets and stared at him, looking pensive and patient.

“Anything reclined’s going to look submissive, feminine even,” said Freddie. “Most reclining men in art are ill or being murdered.”

“Damn,” said Roger with a smile, “well then I can just be selective with who I show this to.”

“It’s all up to you,” said Freddie.

“Should I?” Roger stretched the waistband of his pants.

“If you want,” said Freddie, “it’s your drawing.”

Freddie averted his eyes, pretending to be marking up _something_ on his paper, when Roger’s thumbs hooked on the band of his pants. It felt childish to be so flustered over something as plain and common as a man. He felt much less like an adult, like artist, and much more like a primary schooler sneaking peeks when he shouldn’t be. Roger had a body, same as anyone else’s, and it was silly to get so worked up by the mere sight of it.

After enough internal berating he looked up to find Roger awkwardly shifting around his pillows, trying to find the right incline to support him. Freddie wasn’t proud of the way his eyes raked over the slight visible muscle in Roger’s back and his thighs. And when Roger rolled over and asked his help finding the right light, the best pose, he wasn’t proud of the way his eyes lingered lower. But Roger didn’t notice, and once he’d settled into his pose, Freddie found it easier to slip back into his usual, cold and focused mindset of a life drawing.

His record he’d put on earlier played quietly as he blocked in Roger’s body. He laid nearly horizontal on Freddie’s bed, propped up a bit by a few of his decorative pillows, his head thrown back to avoid him holding it up for too long and the knee furthest from Freddie brought up. Roger kept letting it fall to the side, rest on the pillows and spread, Freddie only corrected him a few times before giving up.

“This is sort of strange on this side,” said Roger. One hand draped behind him over the pillows, the other spread across the sheets, gripping them, fiddling with them, fucking up the consistency of the fabric shadows but Freddie wouldn’t chide him for it.

“How so?” Freddie’s eyes flicked from the delicate shadows across his bare stomach to Roger’s face.

“It’s very…exposing,” said Roger with a laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me this carefully.”

“Well, a better artist would take half the time,” said Freddie.

“You’re the best there is,” said Roger with a wink.

Freddie’s eyes moved down, perfecting the rounded-off curve of Roger’s side, the sharper edge of his hip bone. There were few things that mattered less than a cock to a life drawing. There was never a need to focus harder than a few stray marks so Freddie didn’t. Instead he focused on the shape of his calf muscle, the way he could see those muscles flexing when Roger slackened his pose, the way his stomach moved if he laughed, the way his hands tightened and loosened their grip on Freddie’s sheets, the way his sleepy eyes looked, bright blue, locked on his own.

Faces were rarely included in a life drawing, it was usually a separate event, a different, more comfortable pose with better lighting to help the students find the intricacies of each little muscle, each bone. But Freddie couldn’t help sketching in Roger’s features. His soft jaw, his pointed chin, his cheekbones, not particularly prominent but inviting, his small mouth, his delicate nose and the shadow it cast, his big eyes that watched every move of his hand. Freddie found it remarkable that Roger hadn’t cracked a smile, hadn’t made any comments, hadn’t teased Freddie for a thing while he focused on his face.

“Alright, I’m done,” muttered Freddie.

“How’s it look?” said Roger in a low voice.

“Hopefully like you,” said Freddie.

Roger sat up and reached across Freddie’s bedding to grab his pants. Freddie pointedly looked away while he did, as if he hadn’t just spent an entire session laid out bare before him. “Can I see?

Freddie nodded and scooted his chair closer while Roger shimmied down to the end of Freddie’s bed where they met. He handed off his drawing and held his breath for Roger’s reaction. He stared for what felt like ages. Face blank, silence permeating every inch of the room as Freddie wondered if his drawing had fallen short, if he’d been too distracted by Roger to actually draw him.

“You draw me so…” began Roger, his eyes never leaving the paper, “it’s like I’m in a dream.”

“Is that good?” said Freddie. He leant into Roger a bit trying to get a glimpse of his drawing, the image of it already gone from his memory as he tried to recall if it was worth keeping.

“Yes,” said Roger, quiet but confident. Freddie swore he whispered a thanks but never heard the words come out, so focused on the way Roger looked at him, the way his eyes explored his face for a few silent moments. Roger set the drawing down next to him on the bed, leaned into Freddie just a bit. Freddie’s eyes fluttered, knowing what he hoped Roger would do. What he never actually did. He pulled back, laughed awkwardly to fill the silence a bit.

“Should I hang this up?” Roger turned away from him to scoop up the drawing. Freddie leaned away, a little embarrassed and a lot flustered.

“If you like,” said Freddie, his voice uneven.

“You have to sign it first,” Roger held out the sketchbook for him and smiled when he handed Freddie his charcoal. Freddie chuckled with him and signed his name as frilly as he could in the bottom corner. “A Freddie Bulsara original.”

“Maybe it’ll be worth something one day.”

“It’s worth plenty already.” Roger carefully ripped the page out, occasionally stopping, worried he’d rip it, until it was finally free. Freddie used Roger’s hairspray to set the loose charcoal and told Roger to let it dry.

Freddie started the kettle, rummaged for something to eat, and watched, through glimpses and obstructed views into Roger’s room, the way he reorganised the bits of paper and posters that lined his walls, the way he made room for it in one place and decided it was all wrong and made room in another.

~~~

“And our new singer, Freddie Bulsara,” said Brian into the microphone. Freddie gave a wave, a quick hello and smiled when he heard Jo’s voice in the crowd, cheering his name.

He was more awkward on stage than he thought he’d be. It’d been awhile since he had a crowd in front of him, and there was an extra ounce of giddiness with Brian and Roger next to him. A bumpy start to the show but it ended with a flourish just as Freddie promised them all it would. He said goodnights to the crowd, blew kisses to them all and hopped off the stage right behind Brian. It was a small stage, with a small bundle of winnings that they split up evenly, but it, hopefully, meant bigger and better things one day.

They used a less than ideal amount of their hard earned money to buy a pint each at the pub next door. Brian congratulated both Freddie and their brand new bassist on a successful show. When their bassist left to meet his girlfriend, Brian’s melancholy returned along with his hopeless lamenting that their bassist needed to be replaced and they had no leads.

“Brian,” said Roger with Jo under his arm, “can you please just be happy for the moment. We had a good show, those people were happy to see us, and happy to hear Freddie…y’know once they got used to Tim being gone.”

“Fine fine,” said Brian as he took another big gulp of his drink. “But we really need to sort it out—”

“ _Later_ ,” groaned Roger.

“ _Alright_ ,” said Brian, holding his hands up in defeat. Roger stopped at one pint, he had to drive his van back and god knew Freddie couldn’t do it for him. So Freddie stopped at one drink too, in solidarity. After Jo told Brian she could drive him back, he ordered as much as he wanted, which was another pint and a vodka. For most men that would cause a slight slur to their words and a bit more cheer, for Brian it might as well have been moonshine.

Roger helped Jo pile him into her passenger seat and kissed her goodbye through the window as she drove off with Brian’s arm out the window.

“I hope he doesn’t boot in her car,” said Roger tiredly, his hand searching frantically for his keys in his jacket.

“If he throws up three pints, we’ve got to take his guitar away.”

“He has to break that lightweightedness, can’t have that on a tour one day,” said Roger as he unlocked the driver’s door and reached across to do the same for Freddie’s side.

“He’s been so tightly wound about the bassist, I’m glad he loosened up a bit,” said Freddie.

“He’s always tightly wound,” said Roger as they backed out of the carpark.

Freddie fiddled with the radio, trying to find something good but getting mostly advertisements or announcements from the radio stations until he finally hit a song. A song he didn’t recognise just yet but at least it was music.

“Oh—Oh!” Roger turned the volume up high.

“What, what?!” said Freddie. Roger shushed him and pointed to the radio. One of Roger’s favourites came on. A song Freddie knew the words to but never cared to remember the title, he just knew it was loud and punk and blaring from Roger’s room whenever he got the chance. Roger grinned from ear to ear and started in with the melody, prompting Freddie to do the same with the harmony.

Roger drove a little faster and they both sang with a little too much slack in their voice, going in and out of tune but not caring enough to fix it as they screamed the verses and choruses excitedly. Freddie could only wish the song lasted a bit longer, that he and Roger could sing it for just a few more minutes.

“Okay,” said Roger as the song faded out, “you can choose the station.”

They weren’t a full song’s length away from their flat but Freddie turned the knobs anyway, hoping he might catch the tail end of something he preferred. He’d mostly given up by the time he saw their street sign on the left.

“I know I said it plenty tonight but I’m really glad you agreed to sing for us,” said Roger as he flicked his signal on and turned onto their street.

“I’m glad you asked me,” said Freddie.

“Fuck, I mean,” Roger turned into their sectioned off parking spots, almost too tight for Roger’s van, “we sounded so fucking good—I know people were bitching about Tim for awhile and that one speaker kept cutting in and out but we sounded fucking good. So fucking good.”

“We did,” said Freddie, grinning a bit at the enthusiasm in Roger.

“You know this could really go places,” said Roger as he threw the car in park. His eyes locked on Freddie’s, wide and wild with his ideas of stardom.

“I think it will,” said Freddie with equal parts excitement and overconfidence.

“Thanks to you,” said Roger. “Fuck you know, you’re so fucking talented.”

“So are you,” said Freddie with a grin. Roger stared back, his eyes raking over Freddie’s face in the dim light from the moon and the streetlights. Freddie felt his cheeks heat up, his heart race just a little faster. Roger had such an embarrassingly strong effect on him. He averted his eyes and reached for his door. “Let’s go up, we should go up.”

“Oh—okay,” said Roger, he hurried to open his door, lock up and meet Freddie on the other side of his van.

They walked up their stairs to their flat in relatively silence, both humming different parts of the same song under their breath but not saying a word. Roger unlocked the door after Freddie realised he’d left his keys on his dresser that morning. Freddie shed his coat and hung it on the peg by the door. Roger did the same and threw his keys into the bowl by the door.

“Tea and a record?” offered Roger.

“I’ll get the tea, you get the record,” said Freddie. He didn’t turn back to Roger, not keen on meeting his eyes just then. Roger could get him worked up, flustered and awkward so quickly and it always took more effort than he cared to admit to come down. He slammed the kettle on the stove and groaned at the way his hands shook when he found the tea. All because Roger complimented his playing, all because he looked at him, in a certain way in a certain light with a certain expression. As if it meant anything.

Freddie heard the record begin out in the living room and found him and Roger two mugs. One of them needed to break the strike and do the dishes soon or they’d be drinking tea from their hands. It was too late at night for loose tea, too much effort had to go into it. So Freddie found the tea bags and set one in each of their mugs, waiting patiently for the kettle to whistle.

“Hey,” said Roger, somewhere behind him.

“Hm?” said Freddie, hoping his cheeks weren’t red when he turned to face him. Roger smiled weakly and sidled up to Freddie, rested against the countertops and crossed his arms tight over his chest. His gaze moved from the kettle to the mugs, to Freddie’s hands around them, and up to his face. “Something wrong?”

“No,” said Roger, he steeled himself, “nothing wrong.”

He put two fingers through one of Freddie’s belt loops, tugged him gently towards him. Freddie went without a word. Roger looked at him so intensely so carefuly, Freddie could do nothing but stare back. Stare back and hope Roger liked what he saw. When Roger carded a hand through his hair, Freddie sighed. And when he leaned in, pressed a bruising kiss to his lips, he hummed into the familiar feeling, taste of him. His hands were awkward on Roger, his touch unsure. But Roger was sure, sure and confident as he ran his hand down Freddie’s back, lingering at his waist, grabbing his arse. He moved between them, down Freddie’s hip, back up to his belt buckle, then back down. His fingertips pressed firmly as his hand moved over Freddie’s cock. A soft, curious, but intentional movement.

Freddie made some strange noise, a confused moan, a choked sigh, and backed out of Roger’s touch. He turned back to the kettle, it’d started to whistle but neither of them noticed until then, and took it off the heat.

“What’s wrong,” said Roger in a quiet voice.

Freddie scoffed, his shaking hand poured the hot water into their mugs, missing a handful of times and soaking the countertop. “You—you touched—you touched me,” stammered Freddie.

“Did you not want me too?” said Roger. Freddie set the kettle down and looked at Roger, looked at the genuine curiosity in his eyes. His silence became answer enough. Roger took a cautious step towards him, as if a sudden movement would have Freddie scurrying off.

Freddie took a half step back, not fully committing to it but leaning away. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you,” said Roger. He took another step and wrapped an arm around Freddie’s hips, pulled him in. “I’m not mocking you,” he repeated. Freddie stared at him, wide eyed and a little suspicious, but that suspicion melted away with Roger’s lips against his, their teeth clashing uncomfortably but both too needy to care. Freddie whined and clutched at the fabric of Roger’s top, suddenly more desperate for it. Roger pulled back, just enough to mutter, “what do you want?”

“I want,” Freddie clutched Roger’s hip, and thought for a moment how all of his fantasies about Roger began, “to suck your cock.”

Roger pulled back, his cheeks red but no trace of embarrassment in his expression. “You mean it?” Freddie nodded. The arm around Freddie’s waist dropped as his hands worked his belt off. He moved slow and deliberate, not fast enough for Freddie. He pushed his hands away and gripped the leather of his belt himself. His hands shook as he unbuckled and unbuttoned but Roger paid it no mind. His hands found any part of Freddie and rubbed circles there, comforting but eager.

Freddie liked to imagine he’d be good at sucking cock but his inexperience felt insurmountable in that moment, on his knees in the kitchen. He stroked Roger’s cock, getting used to the feeling of it in his hand, the sounds Roger made with every movement. Freddie looked up at him, for a moment, and considered blurting out he’d never done it, he wouldn’t be as good as Jo or any other woman. But the way Roger looked down at him, cheeks burning and eyes desperate, told Freddie he didn’t care how good he was.

He got lost in the feeling of it, of Roger’s cock in his mouth, the way it felt running across his tongue, the inside of his cheeks, the way he wanted to take it all in but his throat kept stopping him. Roger swore, over and over, his thigh trembled in Freddie’s hand.

“I’m close,” muttered Roger, his hands white knuckled around the lip of their countertops. Freddie moved faster. Eager to feel him finish, eager to taste it. Roger came with a high pitched cry that lowered into a growl the longer Freddie let him ride it out. The initial feeling, the initial taste weren’t pleasant but weren’t a surprise, but there was something so dizzying about knowing he’d taken it.

“Good?” said Freddie. Roger nodded, his face still painted with pleasure. He reached a hand down for Freddie and lifted him up, and pulled him into a deep kiss, tongue probing every inch of his mouth, kissing the sore spots better, thanking him, tasting himself. “What do you want now, Rog?” said Freddie.

“To fuck you,” said Roger into his neck.

Freddie’d had this dream before. It’d never been so vivid, but he didn’t care. He’d ride it out with Roger and wake up the next morning knowing it was all in his head if it meant he could have the memory. “My room,” said Freddie.

Roger didn’t bother with buckling his trousers. He took Freddie by the hand and laughed, a little giddy, a little shy, and tugged him down the hall. It took Freddie a moment, a short moment to break from his daze, to laugh with Roger, to hurry behind him and overtake him. To jump up on his own bed and let Roger excitedly peel his clothes off. Roger fumbled in his bedside for the lube Freddie instructed him to find but once he found it he covered Freddie’s body with his own. Giving every inch of Freddie the attention he deserved.

Freddie thought he should close his eyes and focus on the sensation of Roger’s hands and tongue covering him, but he couldn’t bear to miss watching Roger do it. He sat up a bit to stroke Freddie’s aching cock, his face still red, but his eyes still full of confidence.

“I knew you were bigger than me but fuckin’ hell, Fred,” said Roger as his thumb rubbed the head of Freddie’s cock with a practiced firmness. Freddie bucked up into the touch. “I might,” said Roger under his breath. He looked uncertain, or a little hesitant as he leant down and circled his tongue around Freddie’s head.

“Fuck,” groaned Freddie, “fuck, hurry up.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” said Roger as he coated a finger in the lube he’d found. He nestled himself between Freddie’s spread legs and laid over him kissing his jaw to distract from the initial burn. Roger’s kisses turned to bites as he got more desperate for it and nearly whimpered when Freddie told him he was ready for it.

Freddie had imagine it for so long, wanted it so bad. His fingers, the strange things he used for toys, they couldn’t compare, couldn’t begin to rival how painfully euphoric Roger’s cock felt in him. Searingly hot, much bigger than it looked, hitting every good spot in Freddie in an instant.

“Fuck,” groaned Roger, his hips moved in small, inadvertent motions, each once made Freddie wince and crave more. “Tight.”

“Roger,” whined Freddie. Roger kissed his jaw, ran his hand across Freddie’s furrowed brow and smiled at him. A lazy smile with a blush that covered most of his face. He moved his hips, pushed a bit further into Freddie. Freddie watched the way the confidence on Roger’s face faded, the way he looked at Freddie so desperate to be held on to, to be grounded while the sensation overwhelmed him. Freddie felt the same, found comfort in the way Roger’s mouth felt on his neck, the way the muscles in his back felt under his fingertips, the way his hips felt against his inner thighs.

“God,” said Roger, speeding up just a bit, he laughed into the crook of Freddie’s neck, “fuck maybe I am gay.”

Freddie giggled, his laughs broken up by pleasured sighs that he choked back, “yeah, maybe we are.”

“I thought you were a professional,” said Roger with a thrust of his hips, “you’re really not supposed to fuck your models.”

Freddie laughed at the way Roger chided him as he moved, faster, and a bit more desperate, until both of their laughing died off in place of unfiltered moans. For each other, for more. Freddie let out a smattering of ‘right there’s, choking on his own words when Roger hit that wonderful spot, drowning in the intoxicating feeling of Roger moving in him.

For a long time, Freddie heard the sounds Roger made when he came through their walls. The low groans and growls and repeated cries of Jo’s name. But as he got closer, as he brought Freddie’s legs up, bit his thighs and held on tight, he didn’t sound anything like that. He looked so lost, so far gone. His panting of Freddie’s name was even and low, but so much more needy, so much more pleading behind it. He came with a deep moan, he let Freddie’s legs fall to his sides and pushed deeper, harder into Freddie, wringing every last wave of pleasure out of himself. He kissed and panted against Freddie’s jaw, neck, his collarbones.

And his hand lazily moved down, stroked Freddie’s leaking cock for him. He moved his hips for him too. Moved his cock deep in Freddie despite the oversensitivity, dying to get him off. Freddie clawed at his back and leaned into the touch, whined Roger’s name on a loop and watched the way his thighs shook when he pushed himself deeper into Freddie, the way his breath hitched and his movements got more and more jerky. It wasn’t long before Freddie came in his hand, on his own chest. Freddie couldn’t help the cries of his name, the expression on his face, and he couldn’t help love the way Roger watched him so intently as he stroked him through it.

Roger pulled out slow, and rolled to Freddie’s side. Both sweating, both panting. Freddie stared up at the ceiling and focused on the way he could feel the heat from Roger’s body next to him. The way he could almost still feel that heat inside of him.

“Are you,” said Roger, his breath almost back to him, “a cuddler?”

“What?” said Freddie with a breathy laugh.

“Do you like being held after?” said Roger.

“You don’t have to,” said Freddie. Roger sat up then and looked around until he found the shirt he’d thrown off earlier. The idea of him leaving, walking out and leaving Freddie to spend the night alone made his stomach turn. He sat up and murmured a quiet ‘wait’.

“Rinse off, I’ll be right back,” said Roger with a grin across his red, sweaty face. Freddie did just that. Sat under the hot spray of water for a moment or two and cleaned off any traces of himself and Roger. He wrapped himself in a towel and padded with wet feet back to his room. Roger was there already, dressed in boxer shorts and a shirt, pulling back Freddie’s sheets. Freddie said nothing but got dressed and slid in next to him after he flicked off the light. Roger wasted no time in tugging Freddie’s clothes, urging Freddie to lie on him. Freddie wanted to refuse and pretend he didn’t need it but Roger’s insistence gave him an excuse not to. He fell asleep with Roger’s heartbeat in his ear and his fingertips drawing patterns over his back.

~~~

It felt like a dream all night, but when Freddie woke, splayed out with Roger draped over him, it finally felt real. His arm was pinned and falling asleep under Roger, Roger’s thigh pressed on his bladder hard and uncomfortably, the way he breathed on Freddie’s neck tickled in a way he hated, but he’d never been happier. He wondered why they hadn’t always been like this.

Why had he waited so long, wasted so much time being unhappy and experiencing Roger through lingering glimpses. Sure, Roger had Jo to think of and Freddie had his family but maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe they could tell the fucking truth and convert one fo their bedrooms into a study or something. Maybe Freddie’s parents would take it well. Or…maybe they could keep the lie up, keep the secret together. Maybe Jo would take it very well the way she had when she found out about Freddie. Or…maybe she’d be so heartbroken she told the world. But they could always just keep the truth from her, Roger could break it off for something else. Though, since Jo knew the truth, maybe it would look suspicious if he broke it off and never went for another woman. Or maybe Roger could just stay with Jo to keep the lie up.

“Morning,” grumbled Roger, is face squished against Freddie’s chest. “God, your heart’s racing.”

“I—I have to piss but I wanted to let you sleep,” said Freddie, his hands already clammy.

Roger chuckled and lifted his leg off of Freddie. “Have at it.”

Freddie faked a laugh and slid out of the bed, uneasy on his feet as he stumbled to the loo and got lost in his own strange trains fo thought. It was so much easier to keep it all a secret when he was alone in it. So much easier to pretend to the world and himself that he was normal when he only had himself to worry about.

He splashed cold water on his face and took deep breaths into the towel as he patted his face dry. When he came out he peered into his room and found his bed empty. So he followed the noise in the kitchen and found Roger sitting with a mug of tea from the night before, staring blankly at the wall, reminding Freddie of himself.

“You okay?” said Freddie as he picked up the other neglected mug of tea.

“Yeah,” said Roger, his gaze not leaving the wall.

Freddie sighed and sat down across from Roger. Roger kept staring blankly ahead, Freddie the same into his tea. Both thinking about what would change, what they’d have to let slip, what they’d have to be sure of about themselves, what they’d have to admit to a few others, what might get spread to their entire friend group or more. What their growing, vulnerable fanbase might hear, might think.

“We should get dressed,” said Freddie, breaking the silence after an eternity of tumultuous thought. “We’ve got the stall.”

Roger ran a worried hand across his forehead. “I don’t know.”

“Hey,” said Freddie with all the false confidence in the world, “it was just one night.”

“Just one night?” said Roger. “That’s all?”

“That’s all it has to be,” said Freddie. “Eat something, you look so pale.”

He stood, left his tea on the table, and hurried to his room. He shut his door and lifelessly moved around to pick out something to wear. He hoped his words comforting Roger but they only hurt him. He never wanted it to be just one night, just one night, just a taste of what he wanted so desperately and couldn’t have was torture. His heart sank over and over, reliving moments of pure bliss the night before and melding them with the crushing reality of the morning.

But when he left his room and met Roger at the front door he was all smiles and grins, and so was Roger. And when Roger offered him a smoke on their way over, Freddie took it, and laughed with Roger when he teased him for not inhaling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I know it's been awhile since I updated but the second to last always gives me a bit of trouble haha! I hope you enjoy it and please comment if you do , I love reading everything you have to say it makes me so happy !! <3

“So no one’s secretly vying for a replacement?” said John over a pint.

“Of course not,” said Freddie, swatting his hand.

“Honestly, Deaks, you’re miles ahead of the other bassists we tried out,” said Brian at his side.

“He’s not exaggerating,” said Roger. His thigh pressed to Freddie’s under the table as he leaned in further to the conversation. “They were all great players but you’re the best, bar none.”

“So is the trial period over?” said John with a shy smile.

“Oh yes,” said Brian to John before turning to Roger and Freddie, “it is ‘yes’, right?”

“It’s yes,” said Freddie and Roger in overlapping tones.

“Go on,” said Roger raising his half gone pint, “to our newest member,” he added with a wink before crashing his drink into everyone else’s a little clumsily.

John came around to an audition three, maybe four months ago. A shy little thing that clung to Freddie instantly. They’d gone through bassist after bassist and made a habit of telling each one that they were in the band on a trial basis, far too tedious to give someone the job only to wrench it right back. But they all felt, after maybe a week of practicing with and befriending John that he’d be a permanent addition.

He’d been a good distraction too. Roger liked to pretend nothing had changed, nothing had happened. But after a few weeks the conversation thinned out, their ability to ignore it all wasn’t as steadfast. A new bassist, a new focus, a new topic of conversation while they spent hour after hour alone with each other at their stall was a blessing.

“I’m honoured really,” said John with a grin, genuine but still bashful as ever.

“We should be thanking you,” said Roger. “Wouldn’t believe the riffraff we sorted through before you showed up. Saved us a lot of pain you did.”

“What was so wrong with the others?” said John.

“Taking notes on what not to do?” teased Freddie.

“Nothing they did wrong just not good fits,” said Brian, diplomatic as ever.

“They argued with Brian,” said Roger in a loud whisper.

“That’s _not_ why we didn’t get on,” said Brian quickly. “If anything, it was when they argued with you about your precious tempo.”

“Good thing Deaks is on my side about tempo, no more bassists sucking your cock and letting you go slow as molasses,” said Roger with a bit of bite.

“Oh fucks sake, if every song doesn’t have you panting by the end of it it’s shit isn’t it? God forbid we include variety in our music, right?”

“Yes, Brian,” deadpanned Roger, “obviously that’s what I fucking meant.”

“Please, please,” Freddie stretched his arms out across the table, “no fighting, not tonight.”

“Fine,” sighed Roger. Saying it first just to get under Brian’s skin.

“Anyone got money for a second round?” said Brian.

“No,” said Freddie confidently.

“No,” said Roger.

“I don’t either,” added John meekly.

“Well,” said Brian with a grin, “where to now?”

“Scrabble?” said Roger, resting his head in his hand.

“I’m horrible at that,” sighed John as the four of them shuffled out of the booth and stretched their legs out.

“You’ll learn,” said Roger, planting both hands firmly on his shoulders. Freddie’s eyes lingered on the way Roger’s hands squeezed. The way his thumbs circles a few times into the muscle of John’s shoulder before letting go and leading the four of them out to his van.

“Is my vodka still under your sink?” said Brian as they piled into the car.

“I think by now we should start calling it _my_ vodka,” Roger started the engine, “or at least _our_ vodka.”

“It’s _mine_ ,” groaned Brian.

Freddie faked a laugh as he shut his door and fumbled uselessly with the seatbelt he decided to give up on. He mindlessly worked the radio, his job as shotgun rider according to Roger. And though normally he’d be particular with the two or three stations they shuffled through, in the moment he left the tuner on the first sign of music he found.

“Hey, Rog,” Brian shimmied up between the front seats, “you know Chrissie?”

“Yes,” said Roger with a roll of his eyes. They all knew Chrissie. Brian hadn’t shut up about her since they met and four or five dates in he was still just as insufferable.

“What about a double date, with you and Jo? Think she might get on better with you three if she knew Jo well.”

“Oh, er,” Roger turned his signal on and pumped the brakes mindlessly at a red light, “I, I’ll ask, I don’t know.”

“What’s not to know?”

“We’re…y’know, bit of a rough patch I guess,” said Roger.

“Why’s that?” said Freddie, turning to Roger, trying not to let the panic show so clear on his face. Considering how in love they’d been before Freddie and Roger’s…night, there was only one obvious reason why she might not be so keen on him now.

“Nothing big,” said Roger, his eyes locked on Freddie’s for a moment before returning to the road. “Just a little spat about where to spend Christmas.”

“Oh, well, if the fences mend before everyone’s home for the holidays let me know.” Brian slunk back into the cabin of the van with a thud.

Freddie kept his eyes on the road while his mind threatened to bury him with thoughts of Roger and Jo together. In love, visiting each other’s family for the holidays. He knew it had to be this way, knew the moment he saw Roger looking so pale after their night together that Roger wasn’t ready for it all, that a life with Jo was what he was built for. That he ought to just step aside and let him live that life.

But why did he smile so much at John. Why did his touches linger on him so long.

“What is it?” said Roger, quiet enough not to disturb the conversation between Brian and John in the back.

“Nothing,” said Freddie too quickly.

Roger eyed him for a moment, waiting for him to break, before sighing and turning into their little parking spot. “You’re a horrible liar, Fred.”

The four of them meandered up to Roger and Freddie’s flat. Freddie got the vodka out, pouring himself the first drink, Roger chose the record and Brian set the game board up while John reminded them all he’d lose and that it really wasn’t fair that they were forcing him to play this over and over.

“Take this,” Freddie handed him off a drink. “A few more weeks and we’ll break you, I’m sure of it.”

“What sort of rock and rollers play scrabble?” groaned John as he sat on one end of the board.

“You’re stuck with us now,” said Roger, sitting next to him with a handful of tiles.

Freddie sat on the opposite side of the board. Focused far more on the way Roger’s knee kept hitting John’s, the way he applauded him for putting down a few good words, the way he offered to top up his drink, the way he looked over his shoulder while John thumbed through the dictionary, his expression soft, his words softer. No matter how loudly, how deliberately firm Freddie placed his tiles on the board, Roger didn’t stop, didn’t get away from him.

“It’s still your turn Brian,” sighed Freddie, coming to the end of his rope when John made some joke about a word he placed and Roger guffawed like he’d never heard a fucking punchline before.

“I’m thinking,” said Brian.

“I need the loo,” said John as he heaved himself up and sat his drink lazily on the coffee table. Freddie made a point to put a coaster under it after he’d gone.

“That’s my room not the loo,” said Roger with a light laugh. He jumped up.

“Where’re you going?” said Freddie.

“To give him directions,” mumbled Roger.

“I think he can figure it out himself,” said Freddie, but his words were either unheard or ignored.

Brian, lost in his deep Scrabble-themed contemplation, said nothing. And Freddie held his breath trying to hear their conversation. Beginning with directions to the loo, and moving on to the posters hung in Roger’s room. Something he’d always been a bit proud of. Freddie heard him give the tour of the origin stories behind each poster. The one he nicked from the record shop, the one he traded two vinyls for with his sister, the one he very nearly got signed.

“Oh—interesting drawing—is—is this you?” said John’s voice, a little muffled from the distance.

“Oh, er, yes it is,” said Roger.

“Okay I think I’m going to—” began Brian.

“Sh!” growled Freddie.

“Wow, it’s er,” said John.

“Yeah it er—”

“Brian! You seen this?!” called John.

“Seen what?” said Brian, eyes still on the board.

“Someone’s done a drawing of Roger starkers!” said John with a giggle.

“What?” said Brian with a laugh.

“It’s very tasteful!” added Roger with laughter that Freddie knew was forced.

“Tasteful my arse, your cock’s out!”

“Didn’t you need the loo?” snapped Roger with a bit less playfulness than Freddie was sure he’d been aiming for.

“Now I’ve got to see this,” said Brian under his breath as he stood with one fluid motion. Freddie felt his heart leap into his throat, felt his stomach nearly do the same. He stood and followed Brian with a few heavy footfalls to Roger’s room. All three surrounding the little spot on Roger’s wall where Freddie’s drawing was pinned. “Blimey.”

“It’s a nice drawing,” said Roger.

“It’s yes, a very well done drawing,” said Brian, blinking.

“It’s Freddie’s,” said John, bent over just a bit to focus on the signature.

“What the fuck?” laughed Brian. “No this is—c’mon, this is a joke.”

“It’s not,” said Roger, needlessly defensive already. “It’s a nice piece.”

“The fuck—what you’re posing nude for him now? The fuck’s that?” Brian’s laugh was becoming less and less genuine.

“It’s art, Brian. It’s just the human form, not everything has to be so scandalous,” said Roger with an airy sort of disinterest that didn’t match the way Freddie saw his hands shaking. Freddie remembered feeling a little flustered but overall professional while he sketched Roger. But when he looked back at his own artwork it looked as if desire had been infused into every stroke of his pencil, as if the desperate need he felt had drawn Roger for him.

“I guess I’m not an artist,” said Brian, hands drawn up in surrender.

“But Freddie is,” added John, “it really looks just like you.”

“Could’ve been more generous with your cock though,” said Brian with an elbow in Roger’s side.

“ _Alright!_ Let’s get back to the game!” Roger shooed them out of his room, Freddie scurried out first and ran back to his seat by the Scrabble board. Roger offered to refill everyone’s drinks while John was in the loo and while Brian was contemplating his move as if he hadn’t been holding the same tiles the entire round.

“Just _play something_ ,” said Freddie through gritted teeth.

“I’ve got to count it all up in my head,” replied Brian calmly.

“So,” came John’s voice down the hall following the familiar creak of the door to their bathroom, “do you draw a lot of those?”

“Those?” said Freddie with a grin that followed John as he sat back in his spot.

“People,” said John. “You seem really good at it.”

“I do a few classes of just that,” said Freddie with a genuine smile. “You’re free to sit in and try it out yourself.”

“Oh I don’t think I’d be any good,” said John, sucking his teeth.

“Nonsense,” said Freddie with a wave of his hand, “you’ve got plenty of talent I’m sure of it. It’d be fun having my own little protege in class with me.”

“Maybe…Are the models always naked like that?” said John with a boyish giggle that was half embarrassment half vodka.

“That’s sort of the point,” said Freddie. “It’s very friendly though, it’s not what everyone makes it out to be. The classes run for hours, it’s quite easy to get good at doing it that way.”

“Yes, Fred knows his way around a cock by now,” said Roger with a slap on Freddie’s back and two drinks crammed into one hand. He’d said it as a joke and John laughed as if it were one. But there was something biting, a little mean even, in his tone, in the way he clapped Freddie’s back. Something that made it hard for Freddie to laugh, something that made it hard for Brian to laugh too. Although that could’ve been the Scrabble tiles stealing his focus.

~~~

Freddie sprayed down his latest drawing with the communal hairspray and thanked whoever’d remembered to label it for their section of the class as it was on it’s last legs. He waved his sketchbook through the air a few times to get his sketches nice and sealed in before folding it back up and stuffing it in his bag. In the earlier days of being the brand new lead singer, Freddie was more worried about arriving on time. These days he’d never worry about breaking a sweat to get to the hall. Especially now that every time he got in there Roger and John were having such a great time without him. He’d much rather be late than have to linger on the fringes of Roger and John’s quickfire conversation.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Freddie, not bothering to sound genuine. He tossed his bag to the side and tried to ignore the laughter coming from behind Roger’s drumkit while John hung over the crash cymbal.

“Didn’t miss much,” Brian fiddled with his guitar, “I tuned this by ear last night but, god it’s all off.”

“It’s not all off it’s all flat,” said John. “Give yourself some credit.”

“Alright,” said Brian with a grin, “it’s tuned correctly but in the wrong key.”

“Need an E?” said Freddie through a stretch.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Brian without looking up.

Freddie meandered to the upright piano in the corner of the room and struck an E for Brian. Over and over again until he had the reference point and could tune his other strings on his own. Freddie, still sat at the piano, figured he might as well break out some of his old warm ups. When they were first friends, Roger used to find him pianos and make him play _something_ , just to hear it. Freddie gritted his teeth and tried to stay locked those fond memories while Roger and John chatted somewhere in the background.

“You know I’ve never got the hang of piano,” said John. Freddie whipped around a beat or two late, not registering that John had been talking to him. “I can play but not like that.”

“How’d you mean?” said Freddie.

John hurried over to his side and sat on the bench beside him with no hesitation. He played the little warm up arpeggios Freddie’s gone through, a little off as if John hadn’t played in awhile, and a little heavy, like he was beating the keys.

“See? It sounds like I’m cross with the piano,” said John.

“You’ve done the hard part though, just add a little finesse,” said Freddie with a wide grin. “Watch my hand, look.”

Freddie did a few scales, dancing over the keys the way he always did, the way he took for granted. John joined in, trying to play with equal agility and grace an octave lower, his fingers still mashing the keys.

“A little lighter,” said Freddie. “You’re not trying to punish it.”

“You sound just like my teacher,” said John with a grin.

“You’ll catch on,” Freddie nudged his shoulder against John’s as they descended the scale together.

“ _Hey!_ ” said Roger from his kit, “I think we ought to start.”

“Thanks for trying,” said John with a smile as they both hurried to their spots in the lineup.

Freddie held the lyrics sheet in his hand still, an old habit that he couldn’t break in practice. Freddie spent the first half of practice performing, practicing how showmanship as much as his singing, but for the back end of the set he was always messing with the others. Brian always invited it, he enjoyed Freddie’s stage presence as much as the audiences did, John still shied away from it but Freddie was determined to get him dancing. Roger always made it clear that were he not confined to the kit he’d be up front doing all of the dips and bends and dances Freddie did. During a live show, Freddie tried to coax as much movement from him as possible, but for a rehearsal he was pulling faces to get Roger to smile.

Roger normally was smiling before Freddie ever turned around, but right then he wasn’t smiling, wasn’t even willing to look up at Freddie. Freddie knew he knew the song backwards and forwards, he didn’t need any extra concentration, he wasn’t working through a tricky bit. Freddie’s singing faltered as he tried to catch Roger’s eye, he slipped out of tune for a phrase before he pulled it back together and turned his back to Roger.

After their allotted time was up, Roger took apart the school’s kit himself. Normally he’d whine for help and demand that it be an even split of heavy lifting to get the drums back into the storage closet across the hall. But today he did it himself in silence. Freddie and Brian watched the way Roger carried off a floor tom, the way he kicked open the door to the practice hall and the opposite door to the storage unit, then looked at each other. Both trying to remember what might’ve pissed him off, both coming up empty.

“Is it just me or is he angry?” said John, not quite tuned in with Freddie and Brian.

“He’s always angry,” said Freddie.

“Wonder what’s got to him this time,” sighed Brian.

“I’m not sticking around to find out,” said Freddie. He hurried to grab his bag from the far wall and slipped out of the practice hall moments before he heard Roger kick his way out of the storage closet. He didn’t look back as he hurried down the hall, aiming for the door that led out to the road.

“Oh sorry,” said a woman who’d just narrowly avoided getting struck by the force of Freddie flinging the door open.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you—” began Freddie, before interrupting himself with, “oh—Hi Jo.”

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” said Jo with a grin. Ages to her was almost a week. Not quite long enough for Freddie’s liking. “Is practice over, Rog asked me to meet him.”

“Just ended,” said Freddie, awkwardly shoving his hands into his back pockets.

“Before I forget, can you help me plan Roger’s Christmas gift?” Jo crossed her arms over his chest when the wind picked up for a spell. “He’s so much harder to shop for than I predicted.”

“Er, I’m having trouble myself so…” That wasn’t true, Freddie’d already bought him another edition of that sideshow science fiction comic he was so fond of. But the last thing Freddie wanted was any one-on-one time with Jo. The thought of her put him on edge. The thought of what she knew, what she had the power to tell anyone. The thought of what she had, the thought of her spending every other night with Roger while he turned his records up and pretended he couldn’t hear.

“He’s so difficult,” said Jo with a fake smirk. “I’ve got to find something a bit early since I’ll be home for Christmas.”

“Is he not going with?” Roger never went back to Truro for Christmas. On boxing day, or the day after, he’d go down to have dinner with his parents and his sister, but more often than not he gave excuses about schoolwork or band practice to avoid it. Freddie assumed going to meet Jo’s parents over the holiday would be the perfect excuse for Roger’s parents.

“Did he not say?” Jo cocked her head. “I don’t know, it was a whole row,” she uncrossed her arms only to cross them again, “he said he didn’t want to meet them yet then said well he just didn’t want to leave for Christmas and—I don’t know what’s going on with him but he’ll be here for Christmas.”

“That’s Roger for you,” said Freddie, hoping it wasn’t obvious how happy he was to have been chosen over Jo. He knew it wasn’t as simple as all that, knew Roger probably declined because of the rent payment they’d be late on if Roger didn’t help with the stall, or the Christmas party they were hosting, or the mere fact that he wasn’t much of a ‘parents’ sort of boyfriend and was worried about the impression he’d make. But it was a nice thought that Roger wanted to spend Christmas with him.

“I do get the feeling that if I invited you along he might’ve said yes,” said Jo with a mirthless chuckle.

“What’d’you mean—”

“Y’know that drawing you did of him is…really good,” said Jo, her face a little pink, Freddie wasn’t sure if it was from the cold winds or her words.

“Oh,” he shifted from foot to foot, “good of him to let me practice.” Jo eyed Freddie with a suspicion that left Freddie feeling totally bare. “I hope—I hope you don’t think anything’s…I hope you don’t think anything of it. I draw people every day, it’s part of my work, totally professional.”

“Yeah,” her expression softened, “yeah, that’s what he said too I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—I’m just grasping at straws, this whole fight’s got me all turned around. He’s been so strange lately.”

“He’s a bit high strung about the band, I’m sure that’s all,” said Freddie, lying through his teeth.

“Is he?” Jo looked comforted by that, which was all Freddie needed.

“He’ll be back to normal by the new year, I’m sure.”

“Thank’s Fred,” Jo reached to squeeze his arm, “and sorry I—The drawing’s wonderful, sorry I—”

“Don’t worry,” Freddie shook her off, trying to be friendly about it but eager to get out of her clutch. She gave him a quick goodbye before hurrying into the warmth of the building while Freddie continued down the freezing pavement, internally mapping the best train station to get home.

Guilt swirled in him, thinking of how he’d lied to Jo’s face. It was one thing to insist it was just an artistic endeavor to John and Brian who just wouldn’t have understood the truth. It was another to tell Jo that the true conclusions she’d jumped to were ridiculous, wrong, offensive even. It felt like he was taunting her, teasing her with the knowledge she didn’t have. When he finally made it home, part of him wanted to storm into Roger’s room and rip the damn thing down, a sort of apology for what he’d done. But the closest he got was a step towards Roger’s room that eventually led him back to his own.

~~~

Freddie blew the audience a kiss and felt a little relieved to know that Jo was up in the north with her family and he wouldn’t have to make any small talk with her as the four of them packed up. They gathered in the backroom of the auditorium they’d performed in. A little private school with more money than sense had paid them double their normal going rate, though Brian said he thought the man who booked them was taking pity on them for the holidays. Pity or not, it was extra cash.

“Nearly threw stick,” groaned Roger, pacing around the backroom, the soles of his shoes worn enough that they’d begun to detach and slap the ground just _after_ his foot did. “I’m not fucking sixteen anymore, how could I almost fucking throw—”

“ _Almost_ ,” said Brian gently.

“Too close,” spat Roger in reply.

“God, you’ve been so up tight lately. What’s going on?” said Brian.

Roger looked at Brian, then John, then Freddie, realising all eyes were on him, waiting for an answer. “Nothing. Just nearly threw a stick.” Roger flopped down in one of the creaky metal chairs supplied to them and started fussing with his callouses.

“Gonna wash this all off,” said Freddie, his hand vaguely circling his face as he did. According to whoever had booked them, it’d been by popular demand. But judging by the empty halls and the lack of care or recognition from the few students in the hall, that wasn’t true. Freddie stumbled into the men’s room and ran the sink until it was warm enough to melt the makeup on his eyes.

He knew what he wanted to be, knew where he wanted to go in life. But on nights like these, where the show was mediocre, the mood was low, the pay was pathetic, it became more and more apparent that all the goals in his head had no roadmap. That he was guessing how to reach them and may have guessed wrong. He smudged his eyeliner with a paper towel, taking it off bit by bit and resisting the urge to just give up and go home.

“Hiya,” said John, he let the door slam shut behind him, “still not off eh?”

“Not quite,” sighed Freddie. “Roger still biting?”

“More than ever,” said John. He eyed Freddie in the mirror. “Water takes it off?”

“Bit of soap too,” said Freddie. John let him line his eyes as long as he promised he wouldn’t take any photos. Though Freddie knew Brian got plenty. “Here, use the warm water.”

John sidled up next to Freddie and scrubbed his eyes with little care for his gentle skin.

“Oi! You want just the makeup off, not your fuckin’ eyes as well,” teased Freddie.

“Just like the piano,” laughed John. “I’ve not got a light touch.”

“Stand up, c’mere.” Freddie wet a towel under the water, added a bit of soap and worked on the shadow and eyeliner he’d practically painted onto poor John. “Brian always waits til he’s home, he’s got cold cream that takes it right off.”

“Cold cream?” laughed John.

“We’re musicians darling, not doing our jobs if we’re not a little feminine,” Freddie gently tugged the paper towel across his skin, smearing the bluish colour.

“Is it coming off?” said John, sounding almost worried he’d be stuck forever with lined eyes.

“It’ll come off faster if you shut up,” laughed Freddie.

The door swung open again. John opened his eyes to look, then squeezed them shut again and dove into the sink to rinse the soap out. Freddie sighed and checked over his shoulder, half hoping it was a student, a fan that he could give his signature to. But it was just Roger, Roger and his sour face and red hot temper.

“Am I interrupting?” spat Roger. He didn’t wait for an answer as he made his way to the urinal.

“I see your mood’s not improved,” grumbled Freddie. He worked a bit on his own eyeliner while John continued to rinse his irritated eyes out.

“I’m using my mum’s cold cream, it’s got to be better than this,” said John through a few laughs as he dried his eyes and checked the remainder of the makeup in the mirror. “This is fashionable right?” He turned to Freddie.

“Of course, darling,” said Freddie as he fiddled with his hair. The door swung open hard enough to slam into the wall as Roger made his exit known. “God he’ll be fun to drive home with.”

He had one idea. “No, no clue.”

John left Freddie to fiddle with washing the rest off. His skin turned red, irritated from the cheap bathroom soap so Freddie gave in and wandered out. Wandered past a few more faces that didn’t bother to recognise him and into the backroom. Brian carefully clipped his guitar case shut and heaved it up. He hoisted his guitar up, and did the same with John’s bass.

“Where’re John and Rog?” said Freddie, scanning the little room as if they might be hiding.

“Roger said if I packed up John’s bass, I didn’t have to carry his drums out,” said Brian with a grin, “don’t think John was too happy about that deal though, they’re out packing it all up.”

“Oh I think they get along _just fine_ ,” grumbled Freddie as he grabbed his jacket off of one of the chairs.

“What does that mean?” Brian held the door open for Freddie with his foot and Freddie hurried through.

“It means—It means,” stammered Freddie, “I don’t know what it means.”

“Ah, that clears it right up,” teased Brian.

“I’m—I’m just in a weird mood,” said Freddie.

“It’s been an off night for all of us,” said Brian, tired and worn from dealing with Roger all night. He turned to Freddie, Freddie looked at him quick but found he’d much rather focus on the tiles they were walking on. “Fred, is it alright if I ask you something?”

“Depends on what you ask,” said Freddie with a cheeky grin.

“I just,” said Brian, turning away with a shy smile, “I get this strange feeling that something’s going on with you and him.”

“What?” Freddie almost rolled his eyes at how unconvincing he sounded. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know,” Brian shrugged. “Just a feeling. You two just seem so distant lately, like something change and I—well I can’t imagine what that might be.”

“Well it’s not that,” snapped Freddie, trying his hardest to sound offended.

“I figured it wasn’t,” said Brian, easing off the topic entirely.

“But I am gay,” said Freddie, blurting it out a little louder than he’d liked.

“Oh,” said Brian. He nearly slipped but caught himself. “Okay.”

“Okay?” said Freddie, his hands fiddling with the change in his pocket like his life depended on it.

“Just fine,” said Brian with a toothy grin.

“Good,” said Freddie, “that’s good. But also—don’t tell anyone—”

“Of course—who would I tell?” laughed Brian. Freddie laughed a bit too but more out of fear, out of regret over blurting out his most well kept secret. Brian eyed him, seemed to sense that fear in him. “Really, Freddie, it’s safe with me, I’m not bothered.”

“Weird night,” said Freddie after struggling for words.

“Sure is,” said Brian with a grin.

Freddie held the door for him out to the lot they’d parked in. Brian hurried over to open the side door and slide the guitars in without Roger noticing and getting pissed off for no reason. Freddie circled around the back of the van, hoping to see Roger, riding a bit of a high after telling Brian. A high that took a nose dive when he rounded the van’s open back doors and saw Roger leant into John, lighting his cigarette off John’s with a closeness that neither seemed to find out of place, as if they were used to it.

“Where’s Brian?” said John, as Roger pulled away with a lit cigarette.

“Loading the guitars,” said Freddie, a little out of breath.

“Oh—we can finally go,” said John, a little more energised with the idea of going home in his head. He hopped in the back, joining Brian, and Roger slammed the doors. Freddie lingered near the back of the van while Roger gave him a few looks and circled around for the driver’s seat. He didn’t know why he expected an explanation but he did.

Why could Roger joke around with John, get close to John, let his touches linger. Why he could be friendly with John in such an easy way, but every conversation between the two of them felt stunted and difficult, both always begging for someone to join in, to bear the load of the incredibly weight between them. He slammed the passenger door and didn’t bother pretending he cared enough to fiddle with the radio.

They dropped John off first, then another fifteen odd minutes before they dropped Brian. Freddie called a goodnight out after him as he slid the door shut and did the same. Part of him wanted to jump out with Brian, wander up to his door with him and spend the night away.

“Y’know,” said Roger at their first stoplight home, “I don’t know if you heard, but I’ll be here for the holidays.”

Freddie turned to him, a slight smile on his face. “I don’t know if you heard but I’m not a Christian, so I’m always here for the holidays.”

“I had heard something like that,” said Roger with a smile. Smiles faded quickly between them these days. “Well, if you don’t have plans, we ought to do something.”

“Jo said you weren’t going up to meet her parents,” said Freddie.

“Yeah,” said Roger turning his eyes back on the road. “Don’t think I really want to go down that road yet.”

“Don’t get cold feet now,” said Freddie, a fake smile on his face disguising the pain behind his words. He wanted Roger more than he could bear. But Roger had only a passing interest in him. One that riled him up and confused him but not one that would last. Not like it would with him and Jo, no matter how much Freddie wished it were different.

“I just don’t want to meet them yet,” spat Roger, a little defensive.

“You’ve been with her for a year now, don’t you think you ought to?”

“Not yet,” said Roger, a bit quieter. A tense stretch of silence lingered between them. Freddie might’ve finally opened his mouth, might finally tell Roger to forget the whole night, to pretend it never happened if it meant they could be close like they were before, have fun like they did before. But Roger cranked the radio up, drowning out all of Freddie’s unsaid words.

~~~

Everyone was always invited to their Christmas party, as long as they brought booze along with them it was an open house. Roger came up with the idea for it a week before and they’d worked tirelessly to make sure more than just John and Brian were able to come with such short notice. But the more they asked around the more they found their friends had just as much desire to stay away from home during the holidays as Roger and Freddie.

Their kitchen counters were lined with whiskeys and vodkas graciously donated by their guests and Freddie was the first to pour a drink. He knew he’d need it. Knew that after a drink or two Roger would start talking close with John, laughing about something Freddie wouldn’t be able to hear and he knew he’d much prefer to be drunk when that started. So he poured a few fingers of whiskey and made the rounds as he took sips that burned his throat.

He’d only just finished it off when he sat on his and Roger’s windowsill to take a moment before inevitably getting up for another. Or, so he would’ve had John not taken the seat next to him.

“Lots more people than I thought,” said John, nervously clutching his drink in one hand.

“More than we thought too,” said Freddie, his head a little light.

“I’m a bit out of my element here.”

“Darling, you’re right in the middle of your element,” said Freddie with a grin he forgot to hide.

“I don’t feel like it,” John swirled his cup and tipped it back to get an ice cube out.

“You just have to ease your way in, dear, you’ll love it in the end.” John eyed him skeptically so Freddie covered his heart and added, “I promise.”

John looked pensive for a moment. “How do I ease my way in?”

“It’s easy,” Freddie stood and took John’s hand with him, “come along!”

Though he hadn’t planned on spending so much of the night starting conversations for the sole purpose of getting John to join in with them, it was better than the alternative. If John was under his wing and nervously clinging to him all night, then he wasn’t hanging off of Roger’s every intoxicating word whether he was aware of it or not. But once John finally got in with a few people that wouldn’t let him melt into the background, Freddie took off to fix another drink.

He cracked a few ice cubes into his cup and searched for the whiskey he’d had earlier. It tasted more expensive than he and Roger could really afford and he figured he ought to get another taste before it was all gone.

“Having fun?” said Roger. Freddie jumped, nearly knocking the bottle out of his own hands and looking over his shoulder at Roger. A towel pressed into the velvet of his shirt. “One of Brian’s friends spilled his drink on me.”

“In that case, I’m having more fun than you,” said Freddie. Roger grinned and Freddie noticed he’d done the same. “Did you meet John’s old bandmates, real strange lot.”

“They _are_ —one of them asked me if I’d got a nose job and looked genuinely sad when I said no,” said Roger through a laugh. Freddie stifled a laugh and returned his attention to the whiskey he was pouring. He found it best to leave conversations on a laugh, to look away and fiddle with something new once he’d got a smile out of Roger. These days they were quite rare.

Freddie swore he heard Roger call for him, call his name and a few other mutterings as he hurriedly slipped out of the kitchen. But it wasn’t worth looking back to make sure. He knew Roger hated the strange small talk they’d been reduced to, and Freddie hated it too. He wouldn’t bother them both by indulging Roger’s attempt to fill the silence.

Eventually the party began to thin. Their flat wasn’t quite big enough to accept guests and Roger’d never been keen on the idea of letting someone lie on their couch all sweaty and boozed up. So they shuffled all their guests out with a little help from Brian who took home a bottle of the good whiskey as payment.

Freddie kicked his boots off by the door as soon as the last three or four people said their goodnights. He wished he were a little drunker, a little more giddy off of something to face Roger. Part of him almost wished Roger’d already got in the shower. That they might miss each other entirely before they went to sleep. But just as Freddie’d kicked his shoes off, Roger did the same in a beeline for the couch. He fell into the cushions and blinked slow, eyes sleepy and hands resting lazily across his stomach. He didn’t look like he’d try his hand at uncomfortable smalltalk again, so Freddie fell into the cushion next to him.

They sat there, looking straight ahead at the wallpaper, in a silence that for once felt comfortable and familiar. Broken only by the sound of them both sucking their teeth when they heard the record skip. They turned to each other then, grinned at the other before looking straight ahead again.

“I had fun,” said Roger, “think everyone had fun.”

“I did too,” said Freddie, already tiring of the meaningless conversation. “Y’know Rog I—I miss you.”

Roger turned to him just a bit, just enough that Freddie turned to face him as well. “I miss you too.”

“I feel like I haven’t really talked to you in ages,” said Freddie with a bit more desperation.

“Me too.”

“You know it was just one night, we don’t have to let it—” began Freddie.

Roger interrupted by groaning, almost growling, and sitting up straight, leaning away from Freddie. “Can you stop fucking saying that?”

“I’m trying to help—”

“Well stop fucking helping!” spat Roger. Freddie meekly sank further into the couch, eyes locked on the pained expression Roger wore.

“That’s not fair,” said Freddie, mustering up all the courage left in him. “I try very hard to act like nothing changed and you don’t try at all, you wallow and you bitch at me, and you have Jo over here every other night, you flirt with John constantly, it’s not fucking fair. I’m trying to put this all behind us and you’re rubbing it in my face.”

“You think I’m after John?” said Roger. Freddie didn’t reply but met his eyes. “I thought you were after him.” Silence settled between them for a moment. “I wasn’t flirting, I—I thought I was doing a good thing.”

“What good thing is that?” Freddie cocked his head.

“I—well I _thought_ you fancied him. I thought I was, y’know befriending your future boyfriend.” They looked at each other, both pensive, both thinking back to the moments in time they’d been jealous enough to burn the memory in their minds. “I—with Jo asking me ‘round to meet her parents and you all over John, I’ve been…difficult, I know. But I thought I was doing it for you.”

“Why would you do that for me?” said Freddie, hoping he knew the answer.

“Because I want you to be happy,” said Roger with a quickly fading smile. He clenched his jaw, kept his eyes on Freddie and added, “and I think I’m in love with you.” Freddie’s breath caught in his throat. But he knew it wasn’t true, no matter how much he wanted it to be. Knew that Roger’s morbid curiosity about the two of them would fade, would tear Freddie apart. “Please say something.”

“I—“ Freddie sat up, his muscles all tense, “I’m flattered.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Roger muttered.

“Roger—what do you want from me?” Freddie tugged his wrist, forced him to look at him. “You have Jo—”

“I don’t have to have her, Freddie, I want you,” Roger leaned into him, put a hand on Freddie’s knee.

“I don’t want to be with you when you get bored of the idea, Rog, you’re meant to be with Jo.” He believed his own words but couldn’t help lean into Roger’s touch as his hand came to rest on his hip.

“How could anyone get bored of you?” said Roger with a smirk.

“It’s not a joke, Roger—”

“I know,” Roger trailed a hand up and down his thigh, pulling him in ever so slightly. “I know this is harder than being with Jo, but it doesn’t change that you’re who I want.”

“You’re who I want too,” breathed Freddie, almost embarrassed to be admitting it out loud. Roger grinned and leaned in quick to kiss him.

Freddie hadn’t realised how badly he’d missed it until he had it again. Roger’s hands running all over him, tugging him closer, his tongue brushing against his own with just a hint of shyness that came from the long absence. Freddie gripped the delicate velvet of Roger’s top, pulled him closer, desperate for just a little more. So Roger’s hand moved up his thigh, sure in his touch now as he unbuckled Freddie’s belt.

Freddie whined when Roger palmed him, and moaned when he freed his cock, when he stroked him and smeared the bead of wetness with his thumb.

“Eager,” said Roger, his lips trailing down Freddie’s jaw. Then down his neck, lingering at his collar bones, ghosting down his chest as Roger sank to the floor. He kissed Freddie’s exposed hip, bit him just a bit and looked up for approval that Freddie could only give in the form of a moan and a buck of his hips.

Roger didn’t keep him waiting. He hesitated for a moment, opening his mouth once and clenching it shut the next instant. But he steeled himself. Ran his tongue, his parted lips up and down either side of Freddie’s cock. A novice by every interpretation but with eyes full of confidence. Freddie muttered ‘teeth’ a few times as Roger struggled to get him into his mouth. His mouth was small but his hands were big. He kept stroking Freddie while he worked Freddie’s cock with his mouth as best he could. It was more than enough.

He gagged, his eyes watered, and he kept leaning back for breaks that only edged Freddie. Something about the extra effort it took Roger to do this, made Freddie’s heart ache, made the need in the pit of his stomach stronger. Roger wanted him bad enough to do this for him, to gag and struggle through this just to make him feel good.

“Almost,” said Freddie through laboured breaths. Roger stroked him faster and shut his eyes tight when Freddie filled his mouth. Freddie watched him intently as he pulled off his cock and swallowed. “God, Roger.” Freddie leant forward. “You look like you’ve been crying.”

“Sorry,” Roger wiped his eyes rough. Freddie gently took his wrist, guided it away from his face, and ran a thumb across his wet cheeks.

“I love you too,” said Freddie. Roger grinned and gripped Freddie’s knees tight, light he might jump up.

Before he could, the front door flew open.

“It’s just me,” said John, “left my fuckin’ keys, got all the way down to the fucking train…before…I…”

Freddie’d jumped up and frantically stuffed his cock back in his clothes, zipping and buttoning with his back to John. Roger wiped his eyes, wiped the stray come off his chin in a frantic hurry that left very little to the imagination as was evident but John’s bright red face when Freddie finally turned around.

“I think you left them in my room,” said Roger as he stumbled to his feet and kept his eyes down.

“I didn’t mean to…to interrupt—”

“We were just—just cleaning up,” said Freddie, his voice as even as he could make it. Roger, without a word, hurried to his room for John’s keys, as eager as Freddie and John were for John to leave. John eyed Freddie in the silence, broken only by the sounds of Roger shuffling things around in his bedroom. John was bright red, face painted with guilt as his eyes lingered on Freddie then averted quickly. Lingered then averted. “What’s the matter.”

“Nothing,” said John far too quickly.

“Here they are,” said Roger, hurrying around the corner with John’s keys in his hand. Freddie knew Roger looked a mess. His lips red and swollen, his eye still watery, his hair mussed from the way Freddie grabbed it while he came. The way John looked at him made it clear he saw all of those things too. But his gaze didn’t linger on Roger. He was quick to look down at his feet, to take his keys, to offer them both quick goodnights, and to slam the door behind himself.

“Shit,” said Freddie.

“Shit,” repeated Roger as he locked the locks they’d neglected earlier.

“Poor thing’s probably never even heard of someone doing such a thing,” said Freddie with a little giggle.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Fred,” Roger turned, his back pressed to the door, paranoia clear on his face. “What if he—what if he tells Brian, what if he tells—Jo or my mum or—what if he tells his mates and it gets—”

“Roger, it’s John, he won’t go ‘round telling the whole world,” said Freddie. He crossed his arms. “Why would you care if he did?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you care?”

“Because—because I’m not embarrassed by you.”

“Oh—please, you know that’s not what I meant—”

“Yes it is!” spat Freddie. “You want me but you don’t want anyone to know—”

“I don’t care who knows but I don’t want news spread all over town—”

“Because you’re embarrassed—you’re ashamed to be with me!”

“That’s not it!”

“Then what is it!”

Roger said nothing, just stared back at Freddie from the door. Looking as lost as Freddie felt. Roger didn’t chase after him or call out for him when Freddie made his way to his room. And though Freddie had hoped Roger might burst in and promise him he didn’t care what the world thought, he just wanted him, he knew he wouldn’t. Knew he’d been right along, knew Roger would call Jo in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh remember when I uploaded quickly! Sorry for the long delay, life and all that. I hope everyone's doing well out there! Thank you to everyone who has commented and of course please comment again if you like this chapter/this fic, I always really appreciate it ! <3 I'm sad to see this one go, it was a lot of fun to write. As per usual, I may write an epilogue if anyone's interested but in the mean time let me know if there's anything specific you'd like from my next fic <3

“Morning,” said Freddie, not looking up.

“Morning,” replied Roger, walking to close to him, brushing against him needlessly. When they sat to eat the meager breakfast they could scrounge up, he pressed the side of his foot to Freddie’s. A light, surface level touch. One Freddie didn’t feel he had the right to pull away from in a huff. Something he knew Roger’d done on purpose. Freddie slid his foot back, tucked it behind his opposite ankle and kept his eyes on the newspaper he wasn’t even sure was right-side up anymore.

“Practice later this afternoon,” said Roger.

“Mm,” replied Freddie, hiding behind the newsprint. Freddie held his breath in the brief silence, hoping Roger wouldn’t fill it with anything. And he didn’t. But did quietly creep his hand across the table and let it brush against Freddie’s until Freddie recoiled.

“Come on,” scoffed Roger as he leant back in his chair. “Is this seriously how it’s going to be?”

“Rog—”

“I love you—I’m in love with you, what more do you want from me?” said Roger.

“I love you too—”

“So stop this nonsense, we should be giddy out of our fucking minds right now, this should be the happiest morning we’ve had in ages, why are you so upset.” The more he spoke the further across the table he leant.

“Because,” spat Freddie, leaning back just a bit, “I love you but you—you—you don’t want it like I do.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean—you think I love you less—”

“No, I think you don’t want anything to change,” said Freddie. “You don’t want anyone to know, don’t want your precious rock star image, your little life with Jo, to be shattered by the likes of me.”

“Fred, that’s not true—I told you I’ll leave her for you, I want to leave her for you.” He took a laboured breath. “I wasn’t happy with John walking in on us, I’m still not. Not because I’m ashamed of you but because it’s not safe. We don’t know who he’ll tell, or what he’ll think—it’s fuckin’ embarrassing too, I was a goddamn wreck!” Roger kept his eyes on him unblinking, not bothering or willing to understand why Freddie was so adamant.

“So you’d be fine if I told Brian and John?” said Freddie. Roger breathed a quiet, a nervous ‘yes’. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“But I _will_ ,” said Roger, “I _will_ be okay with it, I just need to let it…let it…sink in.”

“I know,” Freddie smiled halfheartedly. “But I won’t wait until it does. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“Not fair—” began Roger, cutting his own words off. He clenched his jaw and blinked in quick succession, hiding whatever tears had threatened to well up in his eyes. “Fine—Do what you like, fucking prick.”

Roger stood from the table, let all the dishes and cups shake as he did and made a point of slamming their front door as hard as he could on his way out.

Roger threw tantrums about anything and everything. Freddie wasn’t worried about another one. It was better, he knew, to just let this pass. He’d seen Roger go through women like kleenex, and he knew it’d be a long while before Roger was ever comfortable telling Brian and John, much less anyone else. If Roger saw it as selfish or ridiculous, he couldn’t change that, but he didn’t want to find love only to continue on in harshly guarded secret. At a certain point he didn’t want to feel so trapped by his own nature. Freddie hoped once Roger cooled off he’d come to that same conclusion.

~~~

Freddie was listless all through the typically engaging lecture and critique period of his studio. Not eager to absorb the critiques the way he normally was, half-heartedly contributing to the critiques of others, sometimes adding nothing more than a ‘I second that’. Roger was more dramatic in his sadness, prone to tantrums and bouts of rage. Freddie kept it quiet and controlled. It was better that way, he didn’t want Roger to see him sad, he’d only get more upset. He’d ask Freddie where he got off feeling sad when he’d caused it all.

Typical of Roger to take no blame in this, thought Freddie after imagining the argument they might have if god forbid Roger saw him sulking. He took his time getting down to practice. Mostly out of habit now, but it’d be good to see a little less of Roger.

He fiddled with the clasps on his bag and shoved the practice hall doors open. He muttered a fake apology for his tardiness and hung his bag on the back of the nearest chair. He scanned the room, hoping to gauge everyone’s mood, but saw only John. Sat in a chair with his bass in his lap.

“Oh, where is everyone?”

“Roger’s working on the ‘tone’ of his drums with Brian,” John jerked his chin towards the door, “they’re across the hall in the storage room.”

“Him and his tuning,” said Freddie with a little anxiety. He hadn’t seen John, hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t the faintest idea of what John thought he saw. “So,” Freddie dragged a chair over to him and fell into it, “what’s er, what’s new?”

“New?” John scoffed. “I saw you last night, what could possibly be new.”

“Oh yeah, you did see me last night,” said Freddie with a twitch of his foot.

John smiled a slightly anxious, slightly embarrassed smile and muttered, “I did.”

“Alright!” The doors flew open, accompanied by Brian’s voice, louder than Freddie’d ever heard it. He held one of Roger’s drums in his hands. “Good, Freddie’s here.”

“Sick of tuning?” said John with a grin.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Brian set the floor tom down, Roger followed in quick with his bass drum. Eyes focused on where his feet were going, never once drifting up to meet Freddie or John’s gazes before scurried out the hall to fetch another drum.

“He’s in a bad mood,” sighed John. “Practice is so much harder when he’s in a bad mood.”

Practice was harder, but it became clear in the way Roger sulked and spoke that his bad mood wasn’t anger fueled the way it normally was, the way Freddie expected it to be. He’d given in totally to sadness in a way he hadn’t before. Too tired to argue with Brian, too dazed to make changes on a whim like he normally did, too heavy to speed up when Brian asked. Roger’s big sad eyes were too pitiful to comment on during practice. Instead Brian and John both lauded him for even showing up as they helped him cart his drums away.

It didn’t feel fair. It was his own fault. His own refusal to be open about who he was, who he wanted to be with that got him into this fucking mess. Freddie was the real victim. Hopelessly in love with someone who couldn’t say it any louder than a whisper. But no, Roger got all of the sympathy for looking a little teary while he drummed.

~~~

Freddie ran his thumb up and down his pint glass. The beads of water ran up and over his thumb as he did. Far more lively than the tired, dry conversation between the four of them. Roger’s bad mood persisted and John’s hopeful suggestion of a pub seemed like a cure, an hour later and the conversation had dwindled. He couldn’t be sure but he vaguely remembered the last topic being about the name of the pub.

“I was thinking we ought to try and get a real recording space one of these days,” said Freddie, head in his hand, shoulder pressed to the wall, he could’ve fallen asleep if he wanted to. He didn’t know if he’d interrupted anyone but at this point he frankly didn’t care. Brian sat across from him with a warm smile as always.

“Maybe that’s where gig money should go,” he took a sip of his pint, “y’know instead of rent here and there, bills here and there. We ought to save it up for a studio.”

“What about our rent and our bills?” said Roger at his side.

“Well, little by little,” replied Brian.

“If we’re always this broke, I’ll kill you three,” said John with a laugh. Freddie managed a chuckle but his energy had left him awhile ago. He’d spent it all on keeping himself composed and trying not to wring Roger’s neck for sulking, for seeping up all the sympathy, and trying not to run crying to him and take back all he said. Constantly reminding himself it was for the best, that he was making the best choice for them both.

“Well,” Roger downed the last of his pint, “I’m off.” He stood and tugged his jacket back on while fishing in his pockets for the money he owed Brian.

“Where to?” said Brian as he counted the change.

“See Jo,” mumbled Roger. Freddie’s jaw clenched. It was for the best. He could commit to Jo in a way he couldn’t with Freddie, and he knew that meant Roger would double down with her, that he’d rediscover the happiness he’d always had with her amidst the sadness. He’d spend more time with her and in a week, maybe two if he felt generous, he’d forget the whole thing.

“Have fun,” said John absently.

“I won’t,” said Roger with a tense laugh, “I’m splitting with her.”

Freddie sat up. “Why’s that?”

“Sort of personal isn’t it?” said Roger.

“Well—I’m sorry, that’s really too bad,” said Brian with a shake of his head.

“I think you should reconsider,” said Freddie with wide eyes.

“I won’t,” spat Roger before slamming the last of his coins on the table and hurrying out.

There was silence between the three of them, marred only by the sound of Brian sliding the coins across the varnished table, the quiet muttering of him adding them all up over and over again.

He fought it, god did he fight it, but a quiet flame of hope lit in him. Maybe Roger meant it, maybe he’d split with Jo and come home ready to love him, all the way, no conditions or secrets. But that seemed like a stretch. Like maybe he was just splitting with Jo for reasons all his own, all separate from his feelings for Freddie. He wanted it to mean something, but as the time passed, as his ears heard nothing but the din of pub goers, he became more and more sure it meant very little, if anything.

“Can’t believe he’s splitting with her,” said Freddie, more to himself than anyone else.

“I can,” scoffed John.

“What’s that mean?” said Freddie.

“Oh, er,” John coughed, “nothing, just, y’know how he is with women.” Freddie looked at him for a little clarity and got none but noticed his cheeks were pink. “I should go—Good practice today.” He hopped out of the booth.

“It was,” said Freddie and Brian in overlapping voices before both added “see you” as John shuffled out.

“What about you?” Freddie nodded his head at Brian. “What’ve you go to do?”

“Actually, I do have grading.” He smiled at Freddie who could only manage a weak grin back. “It can wait if you want another round.”

“I don’t,” Freddie sat back in the booth, “but could you drive me home? Did Chrissie lend you the car tonight?”

“Of course, and yes she did.”

Brian joked with him, or tried very hard to, on their walk out to the carpark. Freddie laughed but didn’t absorb anything Brian said, all his thoughts were miles and miles away with Roger. Brian offered Chrissie’s 8-tracks. Freddie really couldn’t be bothered with those, too tedious and too quick. Instead he reached for the radio and started tuning it aimlessly. He had his favourite stations but mostly what he wanted to do was tune, and scan through, and hear bits and pieces of words and songs and stop on nothing, just focus on the way the knob felt in his fingers and the way the static crackled in the speakers.

“John came over earlier,” said Brian.

“Did he?” Freddie paused on static for a moment. Brian reached across and turned the volume down.

“He’s building me that amp remember?” Freddie nodded but kept holding his breath. “Well he was very shaken by something so I made him tell me.”

Freddie breathed out long and deep and sank deep into his seat, awaiting the scolding Brian would give him.

“Is it true?” said Brian. “He wasn’t high or anything?”

“It’s true,” sighed Freddie.

“Blimey.” Brian came to a slow stop at the red light.

“What was Deaky so shaken about?” Freddie reached for the scanner and moved the dial some more, aimlessly and fruitlessly. “It was embarrassing I know but…”

“Torn up, all guilty about intruding, seeing all he shouldn’t have,” said Brian with a vague wave of his hand. “I told him to just let it pass, to me nothing’s really got to be said.”

“That so?” said Freddie, referring to the fact that they were saying things about it right then. Brian looked at him quick and looked back to the road quicker.

“Nothing _needs_ to be said,” added Brian. “I’m just a little…confused. And Roger I think tried to talk to me about it earlier, totally garbled but it seemed—”

“He told you?” Freddie cringed at the hope that laced his words, the pathetic hope.

“Not really.” Brian drummed his fingers against his lips for a moment at the stopped light, waiting for it to turn. “He went on some tangent, about how he’s having an affair, and how he’d really like to be with this mistress but it’s difficult or—well it was hard for him to censor I suppose.”

“A mistress huh?” scoffed Freddie.

“I believed him,” said Brian with a shrug. “Or I would’ve had Deaky not already told me that he caught Roger sucking your cock.”

“So did he say I—or sorry, _his mistress_ , was an evil bitch who rejected him for no reason?”

“He told me,” the car jolted forward when the light changed, “that he wanted to be with her—you, sorry, and that she—sorry, _you_ , said he wasn’t enough for you.”

“Fucking prick,” spat Freddie.

“Is that not what happened?”

“No it’s not what fucking happened!” screamed Freddie. “Always the fuckin’ victim isn’t he, never in the fuckin’ wrong, it’s never his fucking fault.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” added Brian quietly.

“After John caught us we argued about how, how he’s not ready to be with me, not really. Sure, we love each other, but he’s so secretive and embarrassed by the whole idea of it. I didn’t say he’s not enough, he’s more than enough but I don’t want to be with someone who’s ashamed to call me his boyfriend—and _I think_ that’s damn reasonable,” said Freddie, words tumbling out faster than he could think them.

“Love?” said Brian after a beat of silence.

“Doesn’t matter does it,” said Freddie.

“No wonder you’ve both been so sulky,” said Brian with a laugh that he quickly decided wasn’t appropriate and quieted. “Fred, I’m asking this genuinely and not to argue, but you’re not exactly…open with this. I mean who knows other than me?”

“My sister, a couple friends in my art classes,” Freddie sighed, “though with them it’s more of a…more innuendo than confession.”

“So why are you upset that Roger’s not hurrying to tell the presses?”

“Because,” Freddie’s voice was so much whinier, more childish than he’d intended, “I just, I…I can’t be with someone like me, not in this regard.”

“Not even if you love him?”

Freddie thought for a moment, desperate to say yes but still ended on, “no, no I can’t. I—I don’t tell people but I’m not, I’m not embarrassed of it, or ashamed the way he—you should’ve seen how he looked at me when John left. It was like the world was ending,”

“And you don’t think him splitting with Jo is a,” Brian paused, took his time choosing the exact right word as he always did, “is an indication that his panic was just, y’know, a reflex?”

“I don’t care,” Freddie fiddled with the crank of his window. “He’s happy with Jo, he’s fucking this up to get back at me but I know damn well he’d still ask me to tell all his friends I was just his roommate or something equally humiliating.”

“Well,” Brian pressed his lips together tight, “I am sorry.”

“Thanks,” said Freddie. He cracked his window and breathed in the fresh air.

“For you both.”

“Thanks,” repeated Freddie. Brian turned onto Freddie’s street and slowed to a stop in front of his and Roger’s unit.

“You won’t be too morose in there alone?”

“I’ll be fine, I’m exhausted,” said Freddie, punctuating the thought with a yawn.

“Get good rest,” said Brian as Freddie clicked the door open, “you’ve earned it.”

“I reckon I have,” laughed Freddie with as much sincerity as he could fake, “and—Brian, thanks for...well…”

“Of course,” said Brian with a toothy grin. He offered Freddie one more goodnight and didn’t drive off until Freddie’d unlocked his door.

He hadn’t lied, he was exhausted from a day of keeping up appearances. But more than that he was thinking of Roger, probably just then getting to Jo’s, starting the horrible, awful conversation. He wondered if Jo would suspect Freddie as the one who threw a wrench in their blissfully happy relationship. Of course, then she’d have to suspect Roger of swaying that direction which he couldn’t imagine her doing, not sincerely. But still, it was enough curiosity, enough worry to keep him up.

Freddie stayed up, pouring himself cups of tea and trying to find a way to entertain himself so he could be awake when Roger came home. He wanted, more than anything, to shut his door, turn on a record and let it play until he fell asleep curled up in his bed. But more than that he wanted to prove to Roger that their friendship didn’t have to suffer just because they were at odds in their thinking, wanted to prove he could still be there for him. There was maybe an element of wanting to be the bigger person, wanting to show off to Roger that he could see past his own feelings to think of someone else. But mostly, it was to pick up the pieces.

He and Jo had been together a long while, longer than any girlfriend to date. Even if he was consumed with thoughts of Freddie, even if he didn’t love her anymore, it’d hurt to break it off. It’d hurt her more, and Freddie wondered for much of the time he spent waiting what excuse he would give her. But as midnight became one, became, two, became three, Freddie decided he might have to hear the end of that story in the morning.

He showered and peeked into Roger’s room after, just in case he’d snuck in under the cover of the loud banging pipes of their bathroom. But no such luck. Freddie hesitated in his pyjamas, shifting from foot to foot in the kitchen before quickly jotting down. ‘Gone to bed. Wake me if you need me’ on a scrap of paper and putting it in their key bowl by the door, somewhere he was sure to see it, if not hear it crinkling under his keys. Though he had a feeling he’d sleep through the night undisturbed.

~~~

Running the stall when Roger was in a bad mood was next to impossible. All the customers that walked by and lingered for Roger’s looks and charm were met with a brick wall of irritability and indifference. It was harder to watch now that he wasn’t mad, now that all that anger and indignation had slowly melted off and turned to sadness. Sadness Freddie wanted to share in but didn’t feel he had the right to, not in front of Roger. Not willing to start an argument.

“Thanks,” said Roger, sounding cartoonishly morose as a woman walked off with a new jacket. He popped their lockbox open and put the five pound note in. Part of Freddie wanted to tell him to fuck off and go home if he was going to fuck over their customers all day. But he was already the villain in Roger’s eyes and, despite it all, he wanted Roger to love him still, to want him still.

“Hey er, you never said how it went with Jo?” said Freddie. It’d been a few days now, Roger stayed totally silent on the topic and Freddie didn’t know how or if he should broach it at all.

“Oh,” Roger shrugged. “Fine I guess.”

“Yeah?” Freddie squinted in the sun, trying to get a gauge of the intricacies of Roger’s expression. “What did she say?”

“Said she saw it coming,” Roger sighed and locked up the money again, sliding it back onto Freddie’s lap.

“How could she’ve?” laughed Freddie. “You two were so in love.”

“What makes you say that?” said Roger, not confrontational but totally earnest. Both in his tone and his expression.

“You just,” Freddie thought back for a specific example but came up empty, “you had such a good time together, she was always staying the night, I don’t know.”

“You didn’t think it was strange how most of our time was spent fucking?” laughed Roger, no humour in his voice.

“You’re young,” shrugged Freddie, “and that’s not all you did. And you did say you loved her I just assumed—”

“I don’t think I knew what love meant when I said that,” Roger stared straight ahead.

“Do you,” Freddie knew he’d regret asking but he had to know, “do you know what it means now?”

Roger turned to him, looked him up and down with the intensity he was known for and breathed a quiet, “yes.”

In that moment Freddie almost forgot it all. Forgot all the things he said about why they couldn’t be together, almost caved and kissed Roger right there in view of all the passing pedestrians. And he knew, in that moment, Roger would’ve welcomed it.

But he steeled himself. Reminded himself why he was doing this, why he was so insistent. Roger wasn’t ready for any of it to bleed over into their personal lives, wasn’t ready for this to exist anywhere outside of their locked flat. And it broke Freddie’s heart.

“I want a fucking drink,” sighed Freddie, sounding as exhausted as he felt.

“Let’s close early,” said Roger. “No ones fuckin’ buying anyway.”

With the meager cash they’d made from the day, they hobbled down a few blocks to the pub. On most days, even with the exhaustion of a mostly-failed day of working the stall, the conversation between them was quickfire and nonstop. These days it was rare and always interrupting a long, tense silence. That became more apparent as they settled into their usual table and found they had nothing to say to each other.

Roger exhausted the band route of chit chatting about the possibility of an album and so on. Topics, questions that had already been answered in their practice time a few days before.

“God,” groaned Roger on their third pint, “is this it?”

“What d’you mean?” said Freddie, already wishing they would pack it in and go home.

“I mean is this what it’ll be like now?”

Freddie perked up. Roger wasn’t one to let things linger, even when he the saddest Freddie’d ever seen him, he didn’t like to leave the elephants in the room unacknowledged.

“I don’t know,” said Freddie honestly. “I don’t want it to be.”

“Neither do I,” said Roger.

“Well, what then?”

Roger shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m tired.”

“Me too,” slurred Freddie. They sat in another tense silence for a moment. He felt certain that deep down in Roger, the love he felt, however genuine it was, would pass. He’d get over Freddie as quick as the feelings had come on. And he’d go back to his normal self, and Freddie would go back to admiring from afar and feeling his heart ache every time Roger looked at someone else, spoke to someone else, slept with someone else. The more he considered it the more he wondered why he’d chosen to prefer that life to being with Roger in secret. Maybe the companionship would be worth a renewed feeling of shame in who he was.

After another pint, they figured the silence was getting them nowhere so, a little drunk on their feet, they started the long walk home. A walk they’d done a hundred times before. Freddie looked forward to them. The drunk walks with Roger’s slurred commentary and jokes. They never felt long enough. Until now, when walking one block felt like an eternity.

A block from their flat, Freddie breathed a silent sigh of relief knowing the ear piercing silence would soon be over and he could lock himself up in his room and remember better times between them. He walked a few steps ahead of Roger once he saw their building but was sure to stay just a few steps ahead, not leaving him behind. A distance small enough that it was made up in the time it took Freddie to unlock their door.

“Tea and a record?” offered Roger, as the door closed behind them. It felt like ages since they’d gone back to that old tradition.

“I’ll make the tea,” said Freddie, a renewed spring in his drunken step. He put the kettle on and listened to Roger shout some suggestions for what record to let run. Freddie repeatedly replied with ‘whatever you like’ as he rummaged around for two mugs. The first song had about ended on some old jazz record Roger chose by the time Freddie was carefully bringing in their tea. He set them on the coffee table to steep and hesitated only for a moment when he sat by Roger.

“Thanks,” said Roger, jerking his chin in the direction of the tea.

“Sure,” said Freddie. He leaned into the feeling of Roger’s thigh pressed to his. Leaned into how lightheaded the beer made him. “What did you tell Jo?”

“Not much,” said Roger, his hand fell to his side casually, fingertips pressed to Freddie’s knee lightly. “Couldn’t admit to all of it.”

“Mm,” said Freddie. Unsurprised but disappointed by his answer all the same. That last glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Roger would’ve told her the whole truth, would continue to tell the whole truth, wouldn’t have to hide Freddie, that last bit of hope burnt out.

Roger hand went from light touches against leg, to his hand covering Freddie’s knee, his fingers sliding between his legs. Gently, unobtrusively, waiting for approval or disapproval with more patience than Freddie thought Roger was capable of. And he wondered why, if he was so certain he’d done what was best for them both, why he hadn’t already said no, or why he let his legs spread by a few inches when Roger moved his hand up. Why he tugged his sleeve, begged him to look at him. Why he pulled him by the collar into a kiss. Why he laid down with his legs tight on Roger’s hips. Why he only snapped out of it when Roger ground down against him and breathed a sigh of pleasure into his ear.

“Stop, stop,” said Freddie, quietly. Roger cursed just as quiet, and pulled back to look at Freddie. A face full of concern, sadness maybe, pain.

“Why don’t you love me?” croaked Roger.

“I do,” said Freddie without a thought, with tears brimming in his eyes.

“Then,” whined Roger, unable to finish the thought.

“I can’t do it,” Freddie’s breath caught, fluttered a bit as he tried to keep his voice even. “I can’t be with someone who can’t admit to it.”

“What do you want me to do?” He said it less as a point about his helplessness, and more genuine. “Do you want me to tell everyone I fucking know? Fred, you didn’t tell _me_ until we slept together, this isn’t fair.”

“Maybe it is,” Freddie ran his thumb across Roger’s cheek, “but it’s hard enough to hate this part of myself alone. It’s a thousand times harder to watch someone you love hate it too.”

“I don’t hate it,” said Roger desperately.

“Maybe you don’t,” Freddie ran his fingers against Roger’s temple, up through his hair, getting the last few glimpses of him like this. “But you’re just as lost as me, we can’t help each other out of this, Rog. I know you, you can still be with women, d’you know how much easier your life’ll be with a woman?”

“How do you know I can be with women—Stop talking like you know what’s best.”

“Think of it seriously,” said Freddie. “And imagine being with me the whole way. Not just awkward kisses and late night fucks, but being with me. Darling, we’d drive each other insane, we’re just too similar.”

“No we fucking wouldn’t—”

“And we’d argue,” Freddie coiled a lock of his hair around his finger, let the light brown strands catch the light and glow that orangey colour they always did in the sun.

“We wouldn’t argue—”

“We’re arguing right now,” said Freddie with a smile. “We’ve got a real shot at this music shit. We’d blow it with this. We’d blow our friendship with this. I want to know you ’til I fucking well die. I don’t think I can do that if you decide you don’t love me anymore.”

“I’d never do that, Fred—” began Roger.

“I don’t want to risk it,” Freddie’s fingers untangled from Roger’s hair and trailed down his cheek. His thumb ran across Roger’s bottom lip. “You’re too important to me.”

“Have you considered that this—that breaking my heart might ruin it all for us?” said Roger.

“Will it?”

Roger stared down at him, silent, eyes flicking between Freddie’s. And in one quick motion he shoved himself off Freddie, tumbling a bit as he untangled from Freddie’s legs and stomped his way down the hall. Freddie held his breath until he heard Roger’s door slam and knew he’d be drinking both of the teas set out on the table.

~~~

With more time came less frantic and pained emotion, a few days, almost a week, and Freddie began to really let his own words sink in. They were on track to record an album, maybe make money off it. Anything more than friendship did have a high probability of ruining their lives together. There was no telling if love would be able to carry them through an entire relationship that they, well Freddie at least, wanted to span the rest of their lives. For Freddie, if he couldn’t spend his next sixty odd years getting into trouble, making music, having fun with Roger, it wasn’t worth the risk. Especially with Roger so apprehensive and uncomfortable.

It stung but he could focus in class, he could make progress on his projects, he could give meaningful advice to his classmates, could even write new lyrics. Partially doodle them out, writing whatever word came to his mind, picking from the little sketch of words, forming lines and creating puzzles between them as he waited for his train to get into the station. He took his time, on accident, on the way through the narrow streets to get to the practice hall. Too lost in his own daydream and lingering bits of poetry to remember he was supposed to be rushing.

The hall was emptier these days. Most everyone who did work in that building would be graduating in a few months, Freddie included. The long hallway was totally empty, baron as Freddie’s footsteps echoed down the stone and laminate.

“ _Yes, you’re supposed to be surprised!”_ screamed Roger behind the practice hall doors. Freddie stopped, just behind the hinges to listen for more.

“Sorry, sorry,” said John through a wheezing laugh.

“At least make an effort to sound sincere,” said Brian.

“I—I’m sorry, but I did _see you_ sucking his cock, I don’t know why I’m supposed to act like you being gay is this grand reveal.”

“Well fuckin’ try!” said Roger, screaming still but the end of his words broke into a laugh.

Freddie felt his cheeks heat up, felt his throat tighten. He didn’t like the thought of the three of them discussing him, chit chatting about the most intimate details of his life while he’d yet to make an appearance. But he’d sooner die than walk in mid-conversation when _this_ was the topic. He shuffled down the hall, taking care to quiet his footsteps and found the broken down coffee machine a few of the music students had pooled money for and bolted into the wall.

He shoved a few coins into the unreliable machine and waited with crossed fingers for one cup of coffee. The machine whirred as if coffee, it’s only reason for existing, was an inconvenience and took it’s time warming up and brewing it. Freddie’s mind drifted in the wait. He shifted from foot to foot, wondering what Roger was saying. What sort of harpy he’d made Freddie out to be in his retelling of his heartbreak.

He sipped his, frankly, disgusting coffee, poured far too much sugar into it, and shuffled back down the hall. He didn’t bother trying to gauge the conversation before walking in, he’d lose any confidence he had to actually open the door if he did that.

“Sorry ‘m late,” he muttered, throwing his bag down.

“That’s fine,” said Brian. He sat in a chair, guitar in his lap, John mirrored him. Roger lay on the floor in front of them. On his back. All three staring at Freddie.

“What did I miss?” said Freddie, knowing perfectly well what he missed.

“Er,” began Roger, hoisting himself up to a sitting position with all of the ab muscles he didn’t have.

“This may shock you, Fred, but Rog’s gay,” said John, unable to play serious long enough to get his words out.

“You’re such a child,” muttered Roger.

“Oh,” Freddie added with an awkward laugh and splash of coffee down the side of his hand. “Well what’s everyone looking at?”

“Nothing,” said Brian quick, a little too quick. He stood, cracked his back with the guitar slung across his shoulders. “C’mon, everyone up. The music’s not gonna practice itself.”

“Yes sir!” said Roger, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He jumped up, took a step towards Freddie, who took a step away, pretending to need something from his bag, pretending to be on a desperate search for some mystery item in his bag. Freddie only turned back to the three of them once he heard Roger’s feet hit the pedals and knew they could go straight into the music, no more idle chitchat.

He didn’t give his singing his all and thought he hoped it didn’t show, he knew it probably did. But he was far too lost in thought to worry about the timbre of his voice on any given high note. His mind was elsewhere, wondering about Roger. Wondering if this meant he expected Freddie to consider this confession enough to prove he wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed. And he wondered if that was true, if he really believed that this proved something. If this small act could accumulate into bigger ones, could keep them together, could keep them out of the shadows and out of deep secret.

“The sun keeps going down earlier and earlier,” said John as he lifted his guitar strap over his head.

“We’re well past the solstice so it’s going down later and later,” said Brian.

“It’s a figure of speech,” said John

“Fuck off,” laughed Roger at the same time.

“You asked,” said Brian, packing away his guitar.

“No I didn’t,” John fumbled with the case for his guitar, “I only mentioned it because I thought we might get a drink after, since its already dark.”

“You’re a real pill you know that,” said Brian.

“I’d be in for a drink.” Freddie didn’t bother hiding the exhaustion in his voice. His mind wouldn’t stop racing with every permutation of every possibility. He could use a fucking drink.

“It’s only six,” said Roger.

“In honour of your big announcement, I’ll buy you a pint, no fancy whiskey,” said John.

“I might as well join in on that,” said Brian.

“Two free drinks?” laughed Roger. “I should be gay more often.”

~~~

Freddie watched Roger drink his second free pint, while he nursed his first out-of-pocket pint in the corner of the booth. He wondered, quietly, to himself, if he ought to pile on and remind them that he was the same, that he’d spent years suffering and hating himself and he’d like a free pint if it wasn’t too much trouble. But it wasn’t really his style. He sipped his lager, rolled his coaster along the grain of the table, and eyed Roger whenever he could.

The beer let his mind focus a bit, let the mental blocks and distractions blur out as he focused on Roger. He wasn’t running off to tell his parents anytime soon, and his confession to Brian and John was undercut just a bit by the fact that, well, John knew, and Roger was entirely unintimidated by either of them. He didn’t fear a negative reaction from them, there were no real emotional stakes. He couldn’t be sure if this was step one of Roger being more open about himself with those he trusted, or if this was easier than changing Freddie’s name and pronouns when he told the story of how awful he’d been to him.

“I need another,” mumbled Freddie as he forced John to shimmy out of the booth. He checked his pockets for any change or cash on way up to the bar, he wouldn’t mind if he didn’t have the right amount, or any money at all, he just needed a break from all that chatter.

He shamelessly slammed some coins on the bar and counted them out. Before he could finish, the bartender swiped all the coins and shook his head, muttering ‘just take it’. Freddie was too broke to be embarrassed by it anymore, so he took his fresh pint with a grin.

“Same for me,” said Roger, somewhere behind him. He came up on Freddie’s right and slammed his own fistful of coins on the bar.

“What happened to two free drinks?” said Freddie.

“This is Brian’s money,” said Roger. The barman slid him his lager and cursed under his breath at the hodge podge of coins Roger had offered him. Freddie took a step towards their table, Roger stepped with him and caught his arm. “Why won’t you look at me, Fred?”

“I’m looking at you right now,” said Freddie with an awkward grin.

“I thought you’d be happy ‘bout this,” said Roger, a little quieter.

“I am,” Freddie locked eyes with the bartender, and wondered for a moment if he didn’t know exactly what they were talking about, if he wasn’t about to throw them out for it. “This can wait.”

Roger might’ve fought him on it if it wouldn’t cause a scene. Instead he followed Freddie back to their booth. Freddie made a more concerted effort to join in the conversation but still, much of the night was spent falling into the background of conversation and being stared at by Roger. After a few more drinks, Freddie’s personality came back as his anxiety ebbed away. And as the alcohol both clouded and focused his vision, he saw only Roger. Roger with his bright blue eyes and lopsided grin, his red cheeks and his sloppy drunken jokes and laughter.

“Oh god who chooses the fuckin’ music in here,” said Brian.

“It’s a jukebox,” laughed Roger.

“This song’s shite,” said Brian.

“What is it, I can hardly hear it,” said John. They all paused for a moment to try and hear the melody over the conversations of others.

“It’s that Tommy Jones song,” groaned Brian.

Freddie whipped around to meet Roger’s eyes to find he was already staring, and smiling, and tapping the rhythm on the table. They kept their eyes on each other, both replaying that night in their heads. Freddie could just barely remember how Roger found that microphone, how he hooked it up, how they got through the majority of their performance without being escorted out for disturbing the peace. All he remembered really was how light and happy he felt next to Roger, performing their drunken hearts out and locking arms on the walk home.

The longer the song played the more he came to accept that that was all he wanted to do. Sing with Roger, laugh with him, and go home to every night. He could force himself to suffer alone and force Roger to move on to spare their friendship, to protect their futures together. But none of that was guaranteed, and Roger’d made the effort, thrown himself further out of his comfort zone than he’d ever been for Freddie’s sake. It may not have been much but it carried weight for Roger.

“Y’know I’m tired,” said Freddie, his thumb stroked his pint glass. “Think I might head back.”

“I’ll go with,” said Roger, excitedly scrambling for his jacket on the other side of Brian. Knocking over two empty glasses in the process.

“Real subtle you two,” said Brian under his breath. Roger didn’t care, it was almost refreshing to see how little he cared. About Brian’s comments, about the looks he got when he took Freddie’s hand to rush him out of the pub, about what the people on the streets outside might think of the way he locked their arms together and huddled up close to Freddie as they walked along the spacious pavement.

They walked in relative silence for a block or two, sharing only quiet laughs and giddy looks. A comfortable, welcoming silence unlike the swaths of ear piercing, anxiety inducing nonconversations they’d been having.

“I’m,” Freddie cleared his throat, “I’m glad you told them.”

“I am too,” said Roger. “Not nearly as big of a deal as I thought it might be.” Freddie cocked his head.

“You thought it’d be a big deal?”

“Sure I did,” laughed Roger. “Why d’you think it took me so long to do?”

Freddie shrugged. Roger radiated so much confidence that the idea of him being scared of something like this, not embarrassed or shy about it but scared of it seemed so foreign. So foreign even though it reflected exactly how Freddie felt.

“Well, I think it shows…I don’t know…it shows something,” said Freddie, stumbling over his words a bit.

“Glad to know it shows something,” teased Roger.

“I think whatever it shows, whatever, it means? I think it means—“

“Please, just spit it out, I can’t take the suspense.” Roger laughed but the tension in his voice was audible.

“I think we, I think we’ll…we’ll do,” said Freddie.

“We’ll do what?”

“No, we’ll do. As in, I think we’ll last,” said Freddie. “And even if we don’t I think it’s…it’s worth it to try.”

Roger paused his steps and turned to Freddie. Freddie looked at him with pink cheeks and a barely hidden smile. Roger stared back, blank at first, then a grin as wide as his face. He held Freddie’s shoulders, tight but not too tight, and kissed him with all the finesse he had left after the lager. Freddie indulged him for a moment or too before he broke away.

“C’mon,” sighed Roger.

“Anyone could see,” laughed Freddie with a tug on Roger’s wrist, urging them to keep on walking. “I’d much rather get home.”

“You would?” said Roger, catching up to him with a little run. Freddie said nothing but slowly sped up to a skipping run, Roger hot on his heels. Both pausing every so often to catch their breaths and figure out shortcuts until they were finally sprinting up the steps to their flat. Their boot heels nearly catching on the backs of every step as they went.

They barreled inside, slammed the door, locked it, and peeled each other’s clothes off over their long and loving journey back to Freddie’s bedroom.

There was something new about the feeling of Roger on top of him. It wasn’t so scandalous anymore, he wasn’t worried that acknowledging what they were doing might break the spell and send Roger running. He wasn’t afraid to make noise, to laugh with Roger, to ask for more when he fingered him. Wasn’t worried Roger was thinking of someone else when his cock replaced his fingers. Didn’t think twice about rolling on top and riding him. And when the laughing between them stopped, and the moaning grew more desperate, Freddie didn’t care if Roger thought he was needy in the way he clung to him. And he relished in the way Roger whined for him and clawed at him helplessly knowing it was just the need for Freddie that made him that way. No worry about whether or not it was wrong, or whether or not someone would find out.

And where before Freddie’d been almost too meek to ask Roger to sleep by him, he didn’t mince words when he warned Roger not to move while he rinsed off. And Roger, all sleepy satisfied grins, was there, barely awake, to welcome him back to bed, to kiss every inch of Freddie he could reach. He mumbled sleepy ‘I love you’s in Freddie’s ear, and Freddie mumbled them back until he fell asleep.


End file.
